The Scoop on the Rings
by F Le Rulz
Summary: A young reporter gets lost while trying to locate a crime scene, and finds herself interfering with an orc attack. How will she cope with suddenly being in a medieval world that's facing an oncoming apocalypse, and how will she land her front page story?
1. The TipOff

**Title:** The Scoop on the Rings  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Boromir, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Merry, Pippin, Gandalf, OC, plus others.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> A young reporter gets lost while trying to locate a crime scene, and finds herself interfering with an orc attack. How will she cope with suddenly being in a medieaval world that's facing an oncoming apocalypse, and more importantly, how will she land her front page story?  
><strong>Warning:<strong> The OC is a total author avatar, down to her bimbo-ness. You have been warned. Also, sarcasm and self-mockery.  
><strong>Genre: <strong>Comedy, Drama, Action Adventure

**The Scoop on the Rings**

**Scoop:** _(n)_Journalism. A news item, report, or story first revealed in one paper, magazine, newscast, etc.

**Chapter 1: The Tip-Off**

She stared at the forest. Lichens covered the trunks of the twisted trees and dry leaves from last autumn carpeted the ground. Brownish red toadstools peeked out from beneath them. "There ain't any way you can get in there 'cept on horseback or on foot," said the farmer, Philip Thorne. He'd been the one who'd found the body in the forest and called the police. The body was believed to be that of twenty four year old Manny Wilkins, who'd been charged two years ago with manufacturing meth. Manny had failed to turn up to court nine months ago and the police had been searching for him ever since. It seemed Manny had had a very valid reason for not turning up.

"Could I…perhaps…borrow a horse?" Leila asked as she fiddled with the spiral binding at the top of her notebook, hoping she looked cute and innocent enough for him to relent and say yes. That was one of her 'weapons' for getting people to talk to her. They said a lot of things when they assumed she was a harmless Asian bimbo. That made for good quotes. However, this time, it was harder. No one lost anything when they gave her quotes. Here, she was asking for a horse.

The farmer looked her up and down. "Can you ride?" he asked her when he'd decided she was going to bring the horse back after she was done. It could be a while. There was a crime scene in the middle of that forest. Not only did she want to cover the crime, but if possible, do a little feature on the lives of forensic scientists —not the scientific side, but the human side. These were people who dealt with the darkest aspects of human nature daily. Surely they had stories to tell. With the world's current obsession with forensic cop shows, it would probably be well received. And if it was going to be well received, allowed or not, they'd probably let her publish it instead of having her send it off to a magazine somewhere else.

"I took lessons when I was little," she said. That much was true. What she didn't tell him was she had had a one hour lesson every two weeks and stopped before she'd learned to canter properly. Then again, he didn't need to know that. "Please? I would be so grateful, and I will be sure to mention your farm in my article." He was, after all, the one who'd found the body.

"I s'pose I could do with some publicity," he mused. "All right, then. You can take Daffodil."

Daffodil, it turned out, was a monster of a horse, with black patches that made him look more like a dairy cow. Leila wondered if she was going to be able to straddle the animal, but there was nothing for it. There was a story inside that forest and being the most junior and only reporter in that newsroom, she had to produce results if anyone was going to ever treat her as an equal. Otherwise, she'd be stuck with pumpkin contests and ethnic celebrations for the rest of her life. Such was the burden of being a reporter of an ethnic minority.

She used the tallest step of the mounting block, wishing she'd worn stretchier pants which would allow for more movement. She only ever wore her favourite skinny jeans when she went out. Her big tote, with all her essential items including a pair of black leather heels and a tank-dress —one never knew who one was going to interview in the course of a day; she'd walked into work one day and had been told she would be following the prime minister around all day— was transferred into a saddle bag. Only her phone, her pen, her voice recorder and her taser remained in her pockets.

Daffodil stood still as she mounted. His ears flopped as he dozed contentedly and it seemed as if he hardly noticed the additional weight until she dug her heels into his flanks. He ambled forward, more inclined to an afternoon stroll than a brisk trot. It took a few more kicks to convince him that time was of the essence.

Somehow, her body still remembered how it felt to be on a moving horse, and she began to move with Daffodil's gait as he broke into a trot. Up. Down. Up. Down. Perhaps this was going to turn out to be a good day after all. She'd forgotten how much she loved being on horseback.

Tree after tree after tree passed her by. However, there was no sign of yellow police crime scene tape. She took out her phone to check the GPS, only to find it wasn't working. Dammit. If she didn't get there soon, the police, the crime scene units, the coroner and the corpse would be gone, and she would have no one to interview. If she didn't have an interview, she would have no story. And if she didn't get a good story soon, she was going to be stuck writing about fluffy bunnies and biggest pumpkin contests for the rest of her journalistic career.

Then, it was as if her prayers were answered. She heard voices. Actually, She heard a lot of voices, the clang of metal, and what sounded like war cries. Where there was chaos and panic, there was probably a good story. She kicked Daffodil into a canter. It took a few tries, but he finally got the idea. She clung onto the saddle and his mane as she bounced so high that once or twice, she felt as if she would fly right off. Her butt was numb. That was probably better than the alternative. The voices drew closer. So did the clanging.

She screamed as something flew right by her head. Something long and sharp with a pointy end. The arrow embedded itself in a tree trunk behind her. Leila lost her cool. She'd wanted a story, but she wasn't the type of journalist who would risk being shot at to get the story. Her dream was to write for _Vogue_, not _Al Jazeera_! Another arrow flew past her. Daffodil snorted. He didn't like this either.

"Come on, boy," she said. "Let's go." She'd call the police and once they'd cleaned up this mess, whatever it was, she would report on it. But until then, she was getting out of there. That was, she was planning on getting out of here until she heard a snarl behind her, and turned around to see something that she'd thought only existed on DVD.

A great many somethings. Oh...—this was never going to be published, so no censorship was necessary—…shit.

—

He had failed. He had failed them all. He had failed Frodo, he had failed Merry and Pippin, and most of all, he had failed himself. Boromir felt his strength flow out of his body with his blood. Still, he forced himself to stand. Hot blood trickled down his side. No son of Gondor was going to fall before his last breath left his body, and he still had plenty of breath. Black blood splashed onto his face as his blade cleaved the skull of an orc into two.

He knew he was going to die. It was fitting. He had broken his oath to Frodo and to the Fellowship. He had let the Ring's lies trick him into betraying everything he believed in. He'd lost his honour and only his death could possibly atone for that.

Just as the orc archer was about to take aim again, a scream almost as sharp and long as that of a Nazgûl rent the air. The orc's arrow flew wide as what looked very much like a cow charged into the fray, distracting the orcs. The 'cow' ran into the orc archer. The arrow flew wide and grazed a tree trunk, taking a good portion of the bark with it. It was at that moment that Aragorn chose to make his appearance.

—

There was nowhere else to go! The way she'd come was now blocked by what she hoped were not, but were most likely, orcs. And they were the big ones that appeared at the end of the first _Lord of the Rings _movie. What were they called again? Ah, yes. Uruk Hai. She was probably not even a snack for them.

'Please let this be a prank,' she prayed as she wheeled Daffodil around. The leading orc snarled, revealing teeth that could not possibly be fake. Cops didn't like the media, but they didn't hate the media this much, did they?

That was it. Leila turned Daffodil around again and headed deeper into the forest. It was the only way she could go, since the way back was now blocked. Daffodil didn't need more encouragement. He didn't like this situation any more than she did. Only, as he surged forward, they found themselves in a clearing with more orcs and a clearly wounded dark haired man trying his best to fend them off and failing. The man favoured his right side, from which one of those black arrows with extremely thick shafts was protruding. His sword was in his left hand. Judging from the way he had to adjust, that was not his sword hand.

She saw an archer raise his bow to aim at him. There was nothing for it, and it wasn't as if she could control herself anyway. She screamed again, distracting the orc long enough for the man to leap out of the way. The distraction, by the way, had not been deliberate. She'd just screamed because she'd thought someone had been about to die in front of her eyes.

Now, she had the full attention of the orcs. She didn't even like being at the centre of attention amongst humans! Orcs were…bad.

Yes, that was the in-depth analysis of a highly trained and coherent journalist. Not.

There was nowhere to run. The orcs chasing her had caught up. She could either give up and die now, or she could die fighting. Or, rather, she could die while trying to fight. Her best friend had been the fencing champion, not her. Leila was more of a flight person than a fight one. She pulled out her taser. A fat lot of good that was going to do, but it was the only thing she had.

Or was it?

Ideas whirled through her head. She had a horse. Armoured knights on horseback were the tanks of the Middle Ages. Bohemond of Antioch had used one hundred knights to defeat one thousand light Muslim cavalry. Granted, Daffodil was no trained destrier, and she was no armoured knight, but they were just going to have to improvise.

"Come on, boy!" she screamed at Daffodil. The already nervous horse bolted forwards. One orc poked his iron lance at her. It was sheer luck that it didn't skewer her. She touched the lance with her taser. The jolt of electricity travelled down the weapon to send the orc into a series of convulsions. Lucky break.

The archer took aim again. Not cool. She thought quickly. "Finally!" she shouted at a point behind the orc. "What took you so long?"

The orc fell for it and turned to shoot at the imaginary foe behind him. Leila took the chance to pull up beside the wounded man, who wasted no time in hauling himself into the saddle with one arm. "Are you mad, woman?" he demanded.

"Most likely!" she replied as she kicked Daffodil, who needed no encouragement to make a run for it. Warhorse he was most definitely not.

"Never mind. Turn around!" he shouted. "They've taken the hobbits!"

Hobbits? _Hobbits?_ Leila's overwhelmed mind couldn't process the information. All she knew was how much she wanted to live so she could interview this stranger she'd picked up in the middle of a forest, go back to the office and hand in her piece before deadline today. This was _so_going to make the front page.

Oh, and then she was going to call the police, of course.

Then again, perhaps she'd gotten her priorities all muddled. Survival was much more important than a front page story, although the two were not mutually exclusive.

Another man burst out from amongst the trees, followed by a small but ferocious red whirlwind. What was with these people and their archaic weapons? Hadn't anyone heard of rifles? And what on earth was wrong with rubber bullets anyway?

"Aragorn!" the man behind her shouted as he parried an orc lance with his sword. "Gimli! Legolas!"

All right. She was either in a coma, or…someone spiked her water or her food or her perfume. There was no way in hell Aragorn and Gimli and Legolas were real people. While she loved them a lot, she knew the difference between fantasy and reality. Then again, the man had also said something about 'hobbits', so perhaps he was the crazy one. However, they were both seeing the orcs, which seemed, unfortunately, very real.

The red whirlwind, it turned out, was a dwarf with a braided red beard that was awfully reminiscent of a Viking warrior's. Covering them was the most beautiful person she had ever seen, male, female or otherwise. His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass, and despite the fact he was in the middle of a life and death struggle —in which he was emerging as the victor— he still had perfect skin and hair. Supermodels would be envious.

They were still horrendously outnumbered. Mathematically speaking, they would each have to take down at least twenty orcs and Leila knew for certain she couldn't even manage the one. The orc she'd tasered was back on its feet already. However, the others more than made up for her uselessness in a fight. Together, the other four became a war machine. They were so well co-ordinated it was as if they'd trained for this. All Leila had to do was make sure Daffodil did what the man behind her wanted him to do.

The next few minutes was a blur of extreme violence and for Leila, she felt as if she was watching all of it from very far away while she steered Daffodil left and right, according to her passenger's instructions. If he'd been able to, he probably would have taken the reins from her, but the injury in his right side prevented him from using his right arm much, and he needed his left hand to hold his sword.

Blood splashed onto her boots as the man behind her cut down orc after orc. She was glad she was wearing black. Stains didn't show up on black. If she'd been wearing her favourite cream trousers…

An orc head bounced up and into her lap. The terrible face, forever frozen in a snarl, stared up at her with glassy lifeless eyes. If she'd been her usual state of mind, she'd have screamed again. Luckily, her survival instincts had kicked in and after the initial shock, she simply grabbed it by its matted hair and threw it aside. Her initial panic had subsided to be replaced by rational numbness.

The orcs, realizing they would waste too many of their number trying to kill them all, gave up and retreated into the trees. The dwarf made to give chase, but the archer stopped him. Now that it was all over, the adrenaline in her veins began to fade away, and it all came rushing back. She was in a completely different place. There were orcs, and people called Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas. Her GPS wasn't working, as if it couldn't get a signal. No, there was no as if. It really couldn't get a signal, and it couldn't get a signal because there was no signal to be gotten. And there was no signal to be gotten because—

That last thought never got finished. Static appeared before her eyes as blood rushed to her head, and then she forgot what happened next.

—

If it hadn't been for Legolas' quick reaction, the girl would have simply fallen onto the ground. The elf caught her just before she hit it. Boromir almost followed her example, except his pride would not let him. It was just one arrow; one measly arrow that might or might not be the death of him. He was not some delicate maiden. He was a soldier. His legs almost gave away beneath him when he dismounted. Aragorn rushed to his side to support him.

"They took the hobbits, Aragorn," he gasped. "They took them, and I could do nothing. I've failed…"

"Hush," said Aragorn. "You should not waste your strength."

"The girl, is she…"

"She's fine," said Legolas, taking his fingers away from her neck where he'd been monitoring her pulse. "I believe she is merely in shock. You should be worrying about yourself instead."

The wound throbbed in his side. When he moved, pain lanced through him. With the rage of battle gone, it was impossible to ignore it. He winced as Aragorn helped him to sit down at the base of a tree. Legolas went to fetch water and Gimli started a fire. The ranger pulled out several bottles from his pack and selected some leaves from the nearby bushes. He pounded the dried powders and fresh leaves together to make a poultice. When the water boiled, he threw some more leaves into it. Pungent steam rose from the water's surface in translucent swirls. Aragorn took the pot off the fire and let it cool for a while before using it to wash the Gondorian's wound.

"This is going to hurt," he warned Boromir.

"I know," said the other man through gritted teeth. "Please, just do it." He tried to control his breathing and he was clutching the hilt of his sword in his left hand so tightly that his knuckles were white, but nothing could stop him from cursing as the ranger applied force to the arrow.

"It struck a rib," said Aragorn. "This is more difficult than I had anticipated." He said something in Sindarin to Legolas. The words were too quick for Boromir to follow. His mind was fogging up with the haze of pain. Legolas handed Aragorn a pair of pliers.

He tried to keep his breathing even. He tried to think about something else; anything else apart from the lancing pain in his side as Aragorn used the pliers to remove the arrowhead where it had been embedded in his rib. It seemed like a lifetime before he finally dislodged it. "The rib is cracked, but you are fortunate it did not puncture your lung," said the ranger as he applied the poultice. Boromir hissed as burning pain flared up when the mixture came into contact with the hole in his side, but it soon faded away to be replaced by a dull throb.

"If the girl had not suddenly appeared and distracted the orcs, I fear I would be dead by now," the Gondorian said.

"Where did she come from?" asked the ranger.

"I do not know, although she bears some resemblance to Easterling women."

"What is a woman of the Easterlings doing so far west?"

No one except the girl had any answers to that question, and unfortunately, she was very much unconscious.

Aragorn was finishing bandaging Boromir's ribs when the girl suddenly sat up. "But the deadline's today!" she cried. Her eyes were frantic. Then realization dawned on her, and whatever it was she'd realized, it didn't improve her mood at all. As she looked around at the trees, at them, and at the campfire, she burst into tears.


	2. The Interview

**Chapter 2: The Interview**

She didn't want to cry, but she couldn't help it. The sobs kept coming, and coming. She was so lost, so alone. She had no idea where she was, how she got here, or how she was going to get back. How was she going to survive? What about her parents? Would she ever see them again? Would they ever find out about what happened to her? She could imagine their worry and their pain, and it just made her cry harder. She hadn't been the best daughter or the best sister around, what with her selfish tantrums and demands, but she did care, and she really didn't want to hurt them like this.

And what about her job? Her deadlines? She'd worked so hard to become a journalist. She wasn't in her ideal job, but she'd held onto the hope that one day, she'd get a better one. Now…

Now she was in a fantastical land where elves and orcs and trolls walked and dwarves delved deep into the earth to create marvels that twenty-first century civilizations, even with all their technology, could never achieve. If her judgement was right, then she'd just —well, it was actually Daffodil who did it, unintentionally— saved Boromir and thus complicated the entire Aragorn-is-king situation.

Someone handed her a white linen square. "Here, lass," said a kind deep voice. She looked up to see the weathered face of the red-bearded dwarf who had to be Gimli.

"Th-thanks," she hiccupped as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Wait. How could she even understand them? The books had been written in English, but she'd read enough to know that the peoples of Middle Earth did not, in fact, speak English. The language they spoke was possibly distantly related to Old English, but even that connection was tenuous. This was too strange. She was feeling faint again…

'Get yourself together, girl,' she told herself sternly. 'How are you going to do great journalism when you panic at the slightest unexpected change? Now breathe. In. Out. In —hiccup— out. At least there isn't a language barrier, the way there is supposed to be.' Finally, she managed to get herself to stop crying. Taking a deep breath to make sure she didn't burst into tears again —unfortunately, there were no guarantees about that— she turned to the dwarf. "I don't suppose you'd want this back?" she asked, referring to the handkerchief.

"Ah, keep it for the moment, lass," he said. "You might need it soon enough." He probably didn't want her snot and tears, not that she could blame him for it.

"Thanks, again, Mister...?" She could guess his name, but she didn't want him to know that. She didn't want any of them to know she knew a lot more than she let on. These were dangerous times for these people, and she wouldn't be surprised if they saw her has a threat or a spy or something. The illusion of stupidity was her best defence.

"Gimli, son of Gloin," said the dwarf. The men —men, elf and dwarf, she really should be saying— told her their names. Not necessarily their real names. Aragorn, for one, introduced himself as Strider, until she asked about why Boromir had called him Aragorn during the battle if his name was Strider. That made for a moment of uncomfortable silence until Aragorn said most people called him Strider.

"And you are…?" The ranger left his sentence hanging.

"Leila. Leila Han," she said.

"Where do you come from, Leila?" asked the ranger.

She considered this question very carefully. "I come from a far eastern country beyond the desert," she said honestly. China was a far eastern land beyond the Gobi Desert, if one were looking at it from a European's point of view.

"I did not know there was anything beyond the desert," said Aragorn. "How did you come to be here?"

"I don't know," she said. That was another honest to God answer, although she wish it weren't. "You don't trust me, do you?"

"You are, indeed, astute," said Legolas.

"It will not be difficult to find out whether you are trustworthy or not," said the ranger. He took her wrist and placed one finger lightly on where her pulse was. "Tell me your name again."

He ran through a series of simple questions, such as about her gender, each time indicating whether she should lie or tell the truth. Leila was beginning to suspect Aragorn had learned some rather surprising interrogation techniques that Tolkien himself had not known about.

Once he'd established her pulse patterns, he began asking her the hard questions. "I will know if you lie," he said. "Are you working for the enemy?"

—

Words could lie. Pulses could not, and the girl's pulse told him she was telling the truth. She was also hiding something, but the most important thing to determine was she was not a threat. Whenever she lied, her pulse spiked. She might have schooled her face, but she had yet to school her mind. That was a very good thing as far as Aragorn was concerned. His only interest in her had been whether she had been sent along as a spy for the enemy. Everything else was her business, as far as he was concerned. Right now, he had more pressing concerns, such as the fate of Merry and Pippin.

However, as uninterested as he was in her, he knew he did not have it in him to leave a helpless, hapless female out here alone in the wilderness to fend for herself, no matter how much of a burden she was. Then again, she was the one who had a horse, and Boromir was in no shape to march such a long distance after the orcs that had taken the hobbits. If they wanted the horse, they were going to have to take her along.

—

To say she was relieved was the understatement of the year. They weren't going to kill her, and she might just live to go back home and forget about her foray into insanity. Leila still wasn't sure how she was going to get home, but she had to do it somehow, right? She didn't belong here, amongst the trees and medieval men with their big swords.

However, until she could get home, she would have to deal with everything that came her way. To be quite honest, she didn't know if she could do it. At home, no matter how difficult things got, both at work and personally, she always had people to support her. Her friends, her family…

Here, she knew no one. She knew nothing of their ways, their culture, their worldview. Sure, she'd read about them in books and watched them on the big screen, but that wasn't even close to enough. She didn't know the second thing about these people.

She used a tree stump to scrabble into the saddle. It took her a few tries because it wasn't as tall as the mounting block she'd used. Boromir refused help and stubbornly hauled himself behind her. He smelled of stale sweat and blood and wood smoke. It would take some getting used to, but considering all things, the situation could have been much worse. Besides, in a few days, she would be smelling as rank as everyone else, barring Legolas. Not even the bottle of Envy by Gucci in her bag would help.

"Thank you," Boromir suddenly said. His voice was comfortably deep in a way that sent shivers down her spine. He sounded nothing like the actor who had played him. Then again, she hadn't expected him to. This was the real Boromir of Gondor, not Sean Bean. Not that there had been anything wrong with Sean Bean's portrayal of Boromir.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because you saved my life," he said. "It was foolhardy move, but I am grateful."

"Actually, saving your life was mostly an accident," she said, "but you're welcome."

"An accident?" he said as he kicked Daffodil into a trot. "So you _accidentally_ pulled up alongside me for me to get on the horse?"

"His name's Daffodil, and that part was deliberate, but you can't really expect me to just leave a man to be killed. Any decent person would have done the same thing."

"Then I thank you for being just another decent person." All conversation petered out as they settled into a worry-filled silence. Leila wondered what else her presence was going to change. She hadn't been here for half a day and already, she'd saved someone who'd been meant to die, thus throwing a wrench into the politics of Middle Earth. What other consequences would there be? She didn't want to think about it. History was all about the butterfly effect. Change one little thing, and the changes cascaded through time, growing bigger and bigger until it culminated in a completely different future.

—

They did not stop until the moon was high and they were close to the borders of Rohan. Legolas had wanted to march through the night, but then he had conceded he was the only one who was capable of doing so. In the stillness of the night, only the grass moved, and one could have been forgiven for mistakenly believing all was well with the world, excepting the slight orange glow, barely visible, in the east.

But Boromir knew. He'd lived with the evil that lurked there all his life. Its darkness had killed his mother and driven his father to madness. If Frodo and Sam did not succeed in their quest, then the darkness was going to kill them all. That thought alone kept him from sleeping, even though his body was tired. His mind kept going, whirring with unbidden and unpleasant thoughts. He thought of all the people who had placed their hopes in him. He thought of his failure. He thought of his determination not to fail again.

If he was going to find Merry and Pippin and rescue them, he was going to need his strength. But, the harder he tried to fall asleep, the worse things got. The thoughts that plagued his mind all seemed to be shouting at him at once so that even in the silence, there was a cacophony within his head that he could not quieten. His side throbbed incessantly. The grass rustled as Gimli rolled over, letting out a particularly loud snort before settling into his usual rhythm again. Aragorn and Legolas were silhouetted against the star-dusted sky, speaking quietly to one another in the elvish tongue.

On his other side, the girl was in a sleep so deep that nothing short of a battle could wake her. He envied her. She was so young, so naïve. What would he give to be that way again. He had not slept so deeply since he was nine.

—

To most men, the marks on the ground and the bent blades of grass would be meaningless. To Aragorn, however, they were a book of information concerning his quarry. Judging by the width of the trail and the length of the strides, he could estimate how many orcs there were and how quickly they were moving.

Up ahead, there were signs that were much easier to read. Half a dozen orcs lay strewn on the ground, very much dead. They were not the large ones they had encountered at Amon Hen, but rather the smaller, more familiar breed that hailed from Mordor. Red eyes had been painted crudely onto their shields. Their innards had been torn out and most of them were in several pieces. Judging by the wounds on the corpses, they had been killed by the larger breed of orc from Isengard. Perhaps they were not working together. Perhaps they had had a disagreement. It was hard to tell without more time to examine the evidence. At any rate, he was not interested in determining how these orcs died. He was much more interested in their prisoners. Much to his relief, he found no indication that the hobbits had come to harm. Yet.

He surveyed the area more closely. The orcs had trampled the ground badly, muddling up most of the prints, but he located a trail that led to the side of the road. There, a green brooch in the shape of a cluster of leaves glittered in the cool morning sun. Judging by the size of the footprints, it had to have been Pippin who had put it there.

"The leaves of Lorien do not fall idly," the ranger whispered as he picked up the brooch. "They are less than a day ahead of us."

"Then let us make haste!" cried Legolas. "It pains my heart to think of those merry folk in chains."

"Just one question," said the girl. "Do you…say…have a _plan_ concerning what we're going to do once we catch up with them?"

"We will find the hobbits and take them," said Aragorn, "and kill any who get in our way."

"So you'll just make it up as you go along?" she squeaked.

That question did not even deserve an answer, so the ranger said nothing.

—

It was not until late afternoon that they found any sign of civilization. Again, Leila recalled how all of this had only been half an hour in the movie. In real life, it had been two days. Two incredibly monotonous days where the only interesting things were dead orcs lying on the ground, and Pippin's brooch. She was looking forward to getting back to civilization again. Forget hot Rohirrim. She just wanted a hot bath. Never in her life had she gone this long without hot water and soap before. She was going to smell like an orc if she didn't bathe soon.

"Legolas!" Aragorn suddenly called from the front of the line. It could hardly be called a column; there were only five of them. Six, if one counted the four-legged one. "I believe I see riders!"

"Yes! There are five hundred of them. Their spears are bright and their hair is fair," called the elf as he shielded his eyes from the sun with a slender hand. "They are approaching quickly. I wager they are Rohirrim."

"The Rohirrim are honourable men," said Boromir. "We may be able to seek aid from them."

Leila craned her neck, trying to get a glimpse of the Rohirrim. All she could see was something moving on the horizon. She couldn't tell who they were or what they were from this distance. However, as they drew closer, she began to make out details more clearly. The Rohirrim wore helmets adorned with long plumes fashioned from the tail hairs of horses. Their helmets hid most of their faces and their armour was a mix of plate and chain mail. Steel shoulder pieces with gold filigree depicting horse motifs, polished chain mail and leather breastplates. These were the horselords of Middle Earth. She wondered if they had much in common with the horselords of her own world; the Mongols and the Bedouin. Judging from the climate of Rohan, she wagered they would have more in common with the Mongols, who also lived on wide open grasslands, rather than the horselords of the deserts…

She was snapped out of her amateurish anthropological analysis when the horsemen reached them.

The wave swept around them, ringing them in. Spears were levelled at the company. Despite the fact she knew the Rohirrim weren't supposed to hurt them —but considering how things were happening differently, she could make no guarantees about anything anymore— sharp pointy things still made her nervous, especially if they were pointed at her. She didn't even like needles. Previously, the most dangerous situation she'd ever been in was passing through roundabouts in high speed zones. Wary Rohirrim warriors or truck drivers who thought they owned the road; which was worse?

The ranks of the riders parted to let a distinguished-looking young man through. Like the rest of his comrades, his long hair was fair and in need of a wash. Upon closer inspection, there was dried blood encrusted on some sections of his armour, as if he hadn't had the time to give it a thorough clean. Or, rather, his _squire_ hadn't had the time. Great men never did their own cleaning.

"Lord Boromir! Well met! I had not recognised, garbed as you are," said the man.

"Greetings, Lord Éomer," said Boromir. "We meet again. I would have liked to say the circumstances were more auspicious than those of our last meeting but alas, it is not to be."

Éomer commanded his men to lower their spears, as Boromir was a friend of Rohan. He dismounted, and Boromir followed suit. Leila wondered what she should do. No one paid her any attention, so she stayed put. If they wanted her out of the saddle, then someone would have told her, right? Besides, there was a chance that if she didn't move, no one would even remember she was there. "Who are these people you travel with, milord? You keep very odd company."

Aragorn answered before Boromir could say anything. "I am known as Strider, Ranger of the North, amongst other names."

"That is an unusual name," said Éomer. "Are you elves?"

Gimli muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like: "Do I _look_ like an elf?"

"It is a compliment, my friend," Legolas murmured.

"Only one of us is an elf," said Boromir. "Legolas of Greenwood is of the fair folk. Strider, like myself, belong to the race of Men."

"And I am a dwarf," said Gimli with great pride. "Gimli, son of Gloin, at your service, Éomer of Rohan. Great things have been said of you."

"And I am at yours, Master Dwarf." The warrior's eyes strayed to Leila. "Do my eyes deceive me, or is there a woman in your company?" He raised a dubious eyebrow.

"We encountered Mistress Leila in the wilderness and she has kindly loaned us the use of her horse," said Aragorn.

"But what is a lone woman doing so far out in the wild?" Wouldn't they all want to know?

Leila dismounted and pasted on a smile. "I am a travelling storyteller who got very very lost," she said, hoping that would be enough. There were a few more raised eyebrows, but as she was not seen as a threat, they quickly forgot about her.

Éomer recounted the sad state of Rohan's affairs. The king, his uncle Théoden had fallen under the control of his advisor Grima Wormtongue and no longer paid heed to what anyone else said. Peasants were flocking to Edoras after their villages had been raided by wildmen and orcs, seeking shelter. The city did not have the capacity to house so many refugees who'd often left with little more than the clothes on their backs. Hunger was rampant, as harvests had been either ruined or taken by Saruman's hordes.

Boromir and Aragorn, in turn, explained the company's search for the hobbits, carefully leaving out anything to do with Mordor or the Ring.

"We may have encountered the orcs you seek," said Éomer. "We came across them last night and slaughtered them, and then burned their bodies on yonder hill." He indicated a column of greasy black smoke rising above the horizon.

"But…what of the hobbits?" demanded Gimli. "Did you see two halflings?"

"The hobbits would appear as children to your eyes," Aragorn elaborated.

"I am afraid there were no survivors," said Éomer.

"No!" whispered Boromir. He leaned against Daffodil's flank for support. Leila longed to assure him that the hobbits were fine and probably drinking ent draught in Fangorn, but she couldn't. One, that would cast a lot of suspicion on her. Two, it might not be the case anymore since other things had been altered. Three, telling them might just change history. If the company believed the hobbits to be safe, she felt they would most likely ride for Edoras with Éomer to help with the war against Saruman. Therefore, they wouldn't meet Gandalf, and Gandalf wouldn't have cast Saruman's spirit from Théoden's body in time, and there was every chance in the world they would all have been killed by Wormtongue's men, or at least imprisoned. She just couldn't risk it, if not for her own sake then for the sake of Middle Earth.

"I am sorry," said Éomer. He ordered his riders to bring five horses forward. "The most I can do for you is offer you these horses. Perhaps there is a chance that in the chaos, your friends escaped, but I would advise you not to place too much hope in this notion. As for myself and my men, we must return to Edoras with all due haste so I am afraid I cannot assist you in your search."

Gimli eyed the horses with distrust. "Thank you for your generosity, Lord Éomer," he said. "But I prefer my own two feet."

"Come, Gimli," chided Aragorn. "You cannot keep up if you do not ride."

"I will not be able to keep up if I fall and break my neck," argued the dwarf.

"You will ride with me, my friend," said Legolas. "I promise you, your neck will be fine." It took a lot of persuasion, but Gimli finally conceded that no matter how great a sprinter he was, he would never be able to keep up with horses. He let Aragorn and Legolas help him onto the back of a feisty grey stallion by the name of Arod. Aragorn's bay was named Hasufel, and the Palamino Boromir had been given was called Abrecan. Leila, of course, kept Daffodil. Warhorses were not for her.

They watched as Éomer and his men rode away, soon becoming nothing more than a dark line on the horizon as they headed home for whatever awaited them in the Halls of Meduseld. As the last rider disappeared, the company, too, set off for the hill where they were sure they would find their answers.

—

As they approached the pile of still-smouldering carcasses, despair gripped Boromir's soul, constricting his ribcage until he could hardly breathe. He'd failed again. It was his fault that the hobbits were gone. No one was more responsible than he was. Merry and Pippin had looked to him, and he had failed them.

"It's not your fault," said Aragorn, putting a hand on his shoulder. But the ranger couldn't possibly understand. Boromir had told no one of what had transpired between Frodo and himself earlier that day. If he had not tried to take the Ring from him, if he had not succumbed to its treacherous wiles, then perhaps Merry and Pippin would not have wandered out into the woods in search of their cousin, and they would not have been taken by the orcs. He kept on going over that day in his mind, reliving the shame. Why had the Valar spared him and taken the hobbits? He was the one who deserved to die, not them.

The ranger left him standing beside the pile while he searched for clues around the edges, examining all the marks on the ground, hoping against hope to find some trace of their friends. Gimli and Legolas searched through the charred bones, hoping not to find anything of relevance.

"I'm really sorry," said a soft feminine voice. He had been so engrossed in his despair that he had not noticed the girl, who was by no means stealthy, had dismounted and was now standing beside him. A breeze blew the smoke towards them, filling their nostrils with the scent of burned flesh and the first signs of decomposition. The girl turned pale and she swallowed rapidly, as if trying not to vomit.

Suddenly, Gimli gave a loud cry and scooped out something from the pile of bones. When Boromir saw what it was, he felt as if his heart had stopped. It was one of the woven leather belts that the Lady Galadriel had given to Merry and Pippin upon their departure from Lothlorien. It was all the proof he needed to see; all the proof he could bear to see. He sank to his knees and let out a cry of rage. The Valar were unjust! They should have taken him instead!

—

People had often told her she was too sensitive, and perhaps they'd been right. When Leila saw Boromir sink to his knees, she was almost tempted to tell him everything she knew. Somehow, her willpower won and she kept silent. She hated to see people in pain. It was one of the things that made her human and one of the things that had prevented her from becoming truly excellent at her job. One of the things she'd always hated doing was asking the families of accidents or crime victims how they felt about losing their loved ones.

Hesitantly, she reached out. Psychology books —and television shows— had taught her people generally wanted human contact during times of grief and shock. Why else would strangers hug one another after disasters? Still wondering at her boldness and wisdom —the former greatly trumped the latter— she put one hand on the Gondorian's shoulder and squeezed. Much to her surprise, he looked back at her. His eyes were filled with turmoil and anguish that she had never seen before. The raw pain almost made her cry.

"You should have let me die," he whispered hoarsely.

"I don't believe that," she said.

"Why? Have you any idea what I have done?"

She had nothing to say to that. To answer would be to indicate she knew his deepest, most shameful secret. So she simply shook her head and said nothing.

"Come and look at this!" Aragorn suddenly said as he bent down over something on the ground. The rest of them hastened to join the ranger, who was examining two shallow depressions in the dirt. "This is where Merry and Pippin lay. Look there. Somehow they cut their bonds." He followed the trail the hobbits had left behind, explaining what each mark meant. "Someone followed them. They crawled here, and into the forest of Fangorn."

The forest that loomed before them was a forbidding place. The canopy was so thick that essentially no sunlight reached the forest floor. The twisted trunks of the trees were covered in lichen that made them look more like bearded old men. Then again, Leila knew what lurked in that forest, so perhaps that was influencing the way she saw it.

"Why did they have to go in there, of all places?" asked Gimli.

"If I were a short defenceless person being chased, one of the things I'd do is climb a tree," said Leila. "People never really tend to look up."

"I guess you would know, wouldn't you, lass?" said the dwarf as they entered the forest. Even though it was not particularly warm in the open, the temperature of the forest was significantly cooler, and the air was more humid. It smelled of leaf mould and wet wood.

"I will have you know that I have never climbed a tree to escape from anything in my life," she said.

"Truly?"

"Well, I've never had to escape from anything before."

"What a charmed existence you lead."

Leila did not answer. Now that she thought about it, her life really didn't suck as much as she often felt it did. Sure, there was a lot of pressure at work and sometimes she just didn't want to go in, but at least no one shot at her or wanted to have her for a snack, and her world was not facing apocalypse just yet —although if climate change continued, that might not be the case. She supposed life was a lot more complicated back home, what with maintaining relationships with colleagues and not trying to look like a fool and not overstepping the boundaries of what she could or could not report on, but how could she explain all of this to people from Middle Earth who had never been in a modern workplace, and especially one like a newsroom?

Instead, she simply let the comment pass by. Perhaps, someday, she might tell them just what she really was, but now was simply not a good time. Damp twigs broke beneath her boots as she traipsed through the forest. The groaning trees had simply been part of the setting in the films, but being in Fangorn was very different from watching a CGI Fangorn on screen. How did the trees make those sounds? Trees, to her knowledge, had no structures that allowed them to vocalize.

"These are strange tracks," Aragorn murmured as knelt to examine the ground. "I have never seen anything like it. More toes than I can count, with a long stride…"

"What manner of beast would make these tracks?" asked Boromir. "Do you think the hobbits encountered it?"

"I cannot be certain," said the ranger. "But I do believe the hobbits were here. The tracks are less than a day old."

Ah, so Treebeard did stop by. Hopefully he rescued the hobbits as per the books and films or else Middle Earth was really screwed. Merry, after all, had helped to kill the Witch King in canon. If the Witch King ended up _not_ dying because her presence had turned everything upside down, she didn't want to think what could happen. Alternative history always went down dangerous paths. She'd already messed up Gondorian politics.

They spent the night beneath the eaves of Fangorn, having tethered the horses outside the forest. Gimli was most unhappy about the arrangement, for he did not like the forest. Leila agreed with him, although she was more afraid of bugs than talking trees. What could she say? She was a city girl, born and raised in places with no less than three hundred thousand people at any given time. Bugs were the banes of her life. Admitting that, however, would probably get her laughed at until kingdom come.

'Why couldn't I have ended up being a Mary Sue with awesome powers?' she wondered. Sure, they were annoying to read about, but if she'd been a Sue, she could have conjured up bug repellent. Unfortunately for her, but not for whoever was going to read her story if she ever got around to writing it, there would not be any super powers a la the X-Men and no bug repellent.

Unless…

"Um…Strider?"

"Yes?"

"Are there any plants around that can keep insects and spiders away?"

Four pairs of eyes turned to look at her as if she was crazy. Finally, Gimli spoke. "Lass, you're out in the wilderness, facing orcs and talking trees, and you're worried about spiders?" he asked.

"I do not like giant spiders, but I doubt there are any here," said Legolas. "I would have noticed their presence."

"I don't like things that have more than four legs," she said. "Arthropods just scare me."

"Arthro what?" said Aragorn.

"It sounds like a royal name," said Boromir.

"_Arthropods_ are a group of animals with segmented legs and bodies and exoskeletons, meaning their hard bits are on the outside rather than on the inside," said Leila. "The group includes spiders, centipedes, woodlice, lobsters…y'know."

"You truly must be a storyteller," said Legolas. "For your mind is filled with useless information."

"It's only useless until you need to use it," she pointed out. As per usual, Legolas had given her his cloak again. For all his sarcasm and his tendency to belittle her, he was quite chivalrous.

The _lembas_ was passed around. Its texture and taste reminded her of fresh waffles with condensed milk, just not quite so heavy and sweet. There was the slightest hint of citrus to keep it fresh and light. It was quite hard to describe how it tasted exactly. It silenced the growling of her stomach, but it didn't make her feel quite satisfied either. She wanted something more substantial, like grilled prawns with garlic butter…

She sighed. Rohan was a landlocked country so that was highly unlikely. Besides, even if they were prawns, they were probably for royals, not commoners like her. Instead, she lay down on the lumpy ground after spending several minutes clearing away all the sticks and stones —and shrieking when a spider the size of her thumbnail crawled over her hand.

"I don't even want to know how many arthropods I'm gonna swallow," she murmured as her eyes grew heavy. She heard a chuckle.

"They're nutritious," said Aragorn. "And you look like you could do with some extra feeding."

She wanted to tell him she'd rather gain weight from eating full-cream gelatos than spiders, but even that seemed to be too much effort. Now that she was semi-comfortable, her eyes simply would not stay open.


	3. The Headline

**The Scoop on the Rings**

**A/N: **Hey, sorry for making you guys wait. I was busy with work, and I finally have my own newsbeat! I now have Leila's dream job!

**Chapter 3: The Headline **

Someone was shaking her awake. "Five more minutes," she mumbled. She was so tired and her bones hurt. Would it be bad form to call in sick?

"No, you cannot have five more minutes," came a voice that was most definitely not her mother's. "And you're drooling on my cloak."

Leila immediately opened her eyes to see Legolas looking at her in an unreadable manner. She quickly wiped away the line of drool from her face before she realized the sky was still dark. No stars could be seen through the canopy of the forest. Apart from the dying fire, the elf was the only other source of light. He glowed with what seemed like a halo, but Leila didn't think he qualified for sainthood.

"It's not even morning yet," she said as she pushed herself into a sitting position and brushed sticks and leaves from her hair as best she could. Oh, she would _kill _for shampoo and conditioner! When were they going to get to Edoras, where she could have a nice long soak with—

Wait. They had soap in the Middle Ages, not shampoo and definitely not conditioner. The very thought of not having conditioner made her feel sick, even though she knew her priorities were all wrong at present. If she ever got out of here alive, she was never ever ever ever ever going to complain about her life back home again. She now realized how pampered and protected a life she had lived. These were lords, and _they_ didn't have running water, much less flushable toilets.

She would just about sell her soul and everything else for modern plumbing and running hot water right now.

"It will be dawn in a few moments," said the elf, not even looking at her. He was gazing into the east, where the horizon was just beginning to glow orange. In the modern world, the horizon was usually obstructed by the tall dark silhouettes of buildings. When had she last seen a sunrise? Granted, she didn't wake up early enough to see the sunrise. She had once stayed up late enough to see one, though.

The fire had burned low during the night and there was little left other than smouldering embers. Boromir smothered them with dirt. "What is going on?" Leila asked, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand.

"There's someone out there," said Aragorn. "We cannot linger."

"The world's a big place. You can't possibly expect to be the only sentient species in it. I'm sure there are lots of planets that are capable of supporting life," she said, until she realized the ranger wasn't really talking about alien life forms that flew about in dish-like vessels.

"I do not really know what you are talking about, but there was an old man out there, and when I called to him, he disappeared. I fear he may mean us harm," said the ranger.

"If he's a decrepit old man, then he's not much of a threat," said Leila. Sleep was still clouding her judgement. "You could probably defeat him with one hand and a blindfold."

"If he were simply a regular old man, I would not have woken you up," said Legolas, taking over the explanation. By then, they were trudging through the forest. Having grown up in the city, the girl still wasn't used to how dark it was. If Legolas hadn't been glowing ever so slightly, she probably would have gotten very lost or walked into a tree at the very least. As it was, she kept stumbling over roots. Gimli cursed, causing the trees to groan in disapproval. Apparently, she wasn't the only one having trouble.

"He moved very swiftly for a man of such great age," said Aragorn. "I think he might have been a wizard."

"You mean the one who lives in Isengard? Saruman?" she squeaked, forgetting that she wasn't supposed to know anything about Middle Earth. Oops. They stopped.

"How do you know of Saruman?" asked Boromir quietly.

"He's a very famous wizard," said Leila. That was true. "We've heard stories about him, even where I come from, and since I'm a storyteller, that means _I_ have to know about him." She was also a rabid fangirl, but she wasn't going to say that, in case they felt she needed to be quarantined.

"What do you know of him?" asked the Gondorian.

"He lives in a tower that's really tall," she replied. "He's got a white robe, and a staff. Beyond that…he's an enigma. No one knows how old he is or where he came from. He's just…there."

The men —she should really say two men, one elf and one dwarf, but that was too much of a mouthful— looked at each other as if consulting with one another.

"I suppose that is reasonable," said Gimli. "He truly is rather famous."

"Infamous, I should say," said Legolas.

"Saruman is a dangerous foe," Aragorn explained to her as they traipsed through the forest back to the edge where their horses were. "Those orcs you first encountered, they bore his mark. He sent them."

"You have to wonder about the genetics of those things," she muttered under her breath.

"What are jee-net-ticks?" asked Gimli.

"Bloodlines," said Leila, for lack of a better explanation. There was no way in the Void she was going to explain DNA to a bunch of people who probably didn't even understand the concept of cells.

"Orcs are corrupted elves," said Legolas quietly. His light dimmed a little as his mood darkened. "They were tortured and mutilated to become orcs."

"See, that doesn't make much sense," said Leila. "Because if you amputate a man's leg, he's mutilated but still a man, and if he sires a son after that, his son is going to be born with two legs. You'd hope, anyway."

"I do not claim to understand it," said Legolas. "There are dark powers in this world and very few know just how they work. We only know that they do."

"I'm just saying there should be a logical explanation for it," she said. She was trying to apply science to a fantastical world. So what? She was tired and she hadn't had caffeine in three whole days! That was seventy two hours! She also smelled like horse and mouldy leaves and sweat and God knew what else. She was grumpy. When were they going to get to Rohan? Forget shampoo. She just wanted to stop smelling like something that crawled out of the sewers!

'Not until we meet Gandalf first,' she reminded herself. Going to Rohan without Gandalf was a suicidal move. By now, if things were going according to canon, which they _should_, then Éomer would have been imprisoned, and Théodred would have died, and Wormtongue would be the most influential man in court. If they turned up without Gandalf, Wormtongue would simply kill them or throw them in jail to rot. "Where are we headed?" she asked.

"Back to the horses," Gimli replied. He wasn't happy about it. "Aragorn thinks we'd be more able to follow those tracks if we were on horseback. _I_ am quite happy with my own two feet. If dwarves had been meant to walk on four legs then we would have been born with four!"

"That would make you a centaur, not a dwarf," said Leila. She ended up having to explain the concept of a centaur to them.

"You have creatures that are half man, half horse, and you think _orcs_ do not make sense?" asked Boromir.

"They're myths, meaning they don't exist," said Leila. "If there were centaurs, they'd have been locked up as exhibits in a zoo a long time ago."

—

The sun had crept over the horizon by the time they reached the edge of the forest. Only one horse remained. Daffodil dozed in the morning sun, being the only horse which had not pulled out his tether. "What happened?" whispered Boromir. "Where are the horses?"

"Did the old man take them?" asked Gimli. The dwarf tightened his grip on his axe, looking around fearfully.

"No, they pulled out their tethers," said Aragorn as he examined the ground. "If the old man had wanted to take our horses, he would have taken them all, instead of leaving one."

"He might not have wanted a cow," said Gimli.

"Hey! Daffodil's a horse with very special colouring!" said Leila indignantly. "And…the complete lack of desire to move." The horse flicked an ear. His eyes remained half-closed until Leila clambered onto his back, with help from Aragorn. Boromir tried to say they would move faster if Daffodil was not weighed down by two people, but the ranger would have none of it.

"You have lost a lot of blood, and yesterday's march has already taxed you more than enough. It would be better for you to ride," said Aragorn kindly and firmly. It was futile trying to argue with him, although Boromir's effort was valiant. At last, he conceded that he was tired, and hauled himself into the saddle.

—

In the light of day, the eaves of Fangorn did not look as threatening, although an ominous air still hung about it, as if something was waiting for the right opportunity to strike. The horse plodded steadily on; the rhythm of his hooves was soothing. In front of him, the girl was half asleep. Her body was loose and without knowing it, she'd ended up using his chest for a head rest. He'd never been in such a position with a lady before. Well, Leila was hardly a lady —what sort of lady would wear breeches?— but she was no whore either. Boromir had never mingled with other sorts of women so he did not know what to expect of them.

But she seemed so tired, and so fragile, like a dainty glass figurine that would break if handled too roughly.

"You may lean against me, if you wish," he murmured to her.

"Hmmm?" she mumbled, and then gave a start. "Oh, I'm so sorry!"

"It's fine, Leila. You're tired."

"Are you sure? I mean…your ribs…"

"It's one rib, and it is on my side. You won't be doing any harm. Just…try not to drool on my tunic the way you did Legolas' cloak."

"I am never going to get that smell out," said the elf without looking back.

"You are never going to let me live it down, are you?" she asked.

For the first time since Amon Hen, Boromir managed a slight smile.

He felt it when she finally dozed off. No, it was hardly just a doze, for she was sleeping so deeply barely anything could wake her. And yes, she did drool, although considering the state of his tunic, a little saliva was hardly going to make any difference.

Suddenly, from the front, Legolas gave a shout. "I see an old man!" he said. "He is cloaked in grey and his beard is long."

"It's Saruman!" cried Gimli. "Shoot him, Legolas!"

"I can hardly shoot an unarmed old man simply because we suspect him of being a threat, my friend," said Legolas. "Look, he approaches us. I do not think he means to harm us."

"We must still remain on our guard," said Aragorn. "One never knows whether a friend is a friend or a foe is a foe."

Boromir's hand went to his sword, just in case. He shook Leila awake. She eventually regained consciousness. "What? What's going on?" she asked. That seemed to be a question that was constantly on her lips.

"We have company," he whispered, pointing ahead. She squinted, trying to see what it was he was pointing at. "Do you have a weapon?"

"Huh? Uh…yeah," she said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out something that resembled a spanner with two prongs at the end. That had to be one of the least effective weapons he'd ever seen. The prongs were not sharp at all, and they were less than an inch long. One could not simply poke one's enemies to death. Still, if she considered it to be a weapon, then perhaps there was something he did not know about it.

The old man drew closer, clambering over rocks with the agility of a much younger man.

"Shoot him now, Legolas!" shouted Gimli. "It's Saruman! What are you waiting for?"

"Stay your hand, Master Elf!" the old man called. "I would have thought _you_ of all people would have had better manners. You can put your swords down. I am not Saruman and I am not here to harm you, but to bring you news. Young lady, if you do not pay attention, you are going to taser yourself, and that will be neither pretty nor pleasant. Put it away."

None of them did as they were asked, except Leila, who thrust her spanner as far away from herself as possible. The light shining behind the old man was preventing them from seeing his face clearly. He was simply a dark silhouette with the faintest details of a white beard.

"Who are you?" demanded Aragorn. "Why should we trust you if you do not even show us your face?"

The light faded as the man threw off his cloak to reveal the brilliant white robes beneath it. Intelligent grey eyes scrutinized the bedraggled company from under bushy white eyebrows. His nose was hooked, almost like the beak of an eagle. Leila might not have known his face —he did not look much like Sir Ian McKellen at all— but she instinctively knew this was Gandalf. Well, it was her instincts and her knowledge of the books that told her. Plus, no one else seemed keen on shooting him anymore; that was a pretty big giveaway.

"Mithrandir!" cried Legolas. "I thought you had died! It gladdens me to see you."

"And I am glad to see you too, Legolas," said the old wizard.

"This makes no sense," mumbled Gimli.

"Not to you, dear Gimli," said Gandalf, "but only Eru has complete understanding of all things. For the rest of us, we must accept that there are more questions in life than answers."

Boromir could not speak. He dared not believe what he was seeing. Perhaps he really was dead. The dull ache in his side reminded him he was not dead. He was very much alive and that meant Gandalf was alive too. But how? As Gimli had said, this made no sense.

As reality sank in, his spirits soared and he quickly dismounted to join the others in greeting the wizard, although he kept one step behind them. He had not known Gandalf as well as the rest of them. Faramir had been the one who had followed the wizard and listened to his words. He heard footsteps behind him. Leila had also gotten off the horse, although she hung back shyly, unsure of what to do next. Gandalf solved that problem for her.

"I do not believe we have met," said the wizard.

"We haven't," she said as she stuck out her hand. No one knew what she meant by that gesture until Gandalf took it and shook it. "I'm Leila Han. Pleased to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Han," said Gandalf.

"Leila comes from a far eastern land beyond the desert," said Aragorn.

Gandalf was thoughtful. "That wouldn't, by any chance, be the far eastern land of China beyond the Gobi Desert, would it?" he asked.

—

Somehow, Gandalf knew _everything_. Well, not _everything _everything, but he knew exactly where she'd come from and he knew she knew about the quest and Saruman and Sauron. Bit by bit, he coaxed it out of her. It was more painful and awkward than childbirth, although she'd never given birth before so that really wasn't an apt comparison.

"You lied to us," said Boromir coldly when she finished. She almost winced with guilt. He'd trusted her, more than anyone else in the company had, and she'd kinda betrayed him. She'd never thought she'd had it in her to betray anyone. People would do anything to ensure their own survival. Unless those people happened to be just like Boromir. Or Aragorn. Or Gimli. Or Legolas. Fine, she was just selfish and cowardly and right now, she hated herself for hurting them.

"It was the truth," she said. "Just not the whole truth. I do come from a far eastern land beyond the desert. I have simply not specified which far eastern land beyond which desert."

"The omission of truth might as well be a lie," said the Gondorian. "We trusted you." She could understand where he was coming from, but she'd done it for the greater good.

"I couldn't tell you," she said. "If I'd told you I knew about the quest and the you-know-what, you'd have thought I was crazy or a spy! And…what if I told you something I shouldn't have? That book…if I told you what happened in it, I could have changed the entire course of history!" She didn't say that she'd already changed history by saving him. "I couldn't risk that. I'm sorry."

Her declaration was met with raised eyebrows.

"She is right," said Gandalf. "Perhaps she should not have deceived you—"

"I was creative with the truth," she amended. Gandalf gave her a look and she fell silent.

"—but she did so with good intentions, and it was the lesser of two evils." The wizard turned to the girl. "You are most correct about how you cannot tell anyone the contents of that book. It is a terrible burden to bear, knowing the future, but you must take care never to reveal it. What will happen must happen. Do you understand?"

Leila nodded. She knew that already.

"I really did think you were a spy," said Legolas. "So perhaps it was wise of you to keep your secrets, because I truly would have shot you if you had proved to be a potential threat."

"I know," said Leila. "I rather liked being alive, so I didn't tell you."

"You know, lass, you're more intelligent than you look," said Gimli, clapping her on the shoulder so hard that she tumbled forward and almost fell flat on her face.

"Is that a compliment?" she wheezed.

"It could have been an insult," said the dwarf.

"I know, Gimli, but I have far too much respect for your axe to be anything other than optimistic and gracious about anything you care to say to me."

Gimli laughed. "There's a good lass," he said. "I always knew I liked you for a reason."

Leila turned to the two men, awaiting their responses.

"Well, as much as I do not appreciate your creative and unspecific truths, I have to admit you had your reasons for keeping your secrets," said Aragorn.

"So you'll forgive me?" she asked.

"Yes," he said with a smile. "As long as you promise not to keep more secrets, except the aforementioned ones."

"I simply wish you could have trusted us," said Boromir. "We trusted you."

"No, we didn't," said Legolas.

"You did not, Legolas. I did."

"I'm sorry. I truly am," said Leila, getting more uncomfortable by the minute.

"And you drooled on my tunic."

"I promise to wash it for you, all right?"

"Then I suppose we are even."

"And, as a side note, you really shouldn't trust people that easily. I could have saved you so you would trust me, which would make it easier for me to get whatever it is I need from you and take it to the enemy, _if_ I was working for the enemy, which I wasn't."

"You seem to have a very firm belief in the darkness of men," said Boromir.

"If there were no bad people, I'd have nothing to write about," said Leila. "You can only do so much with fluffy bunnies and pumpkins."

"Stews and pies and pasties?" said Gimli.

"I'm talking about stories," said Leila. "Seriously, you are as bad as my dad. No, worse. You're like a hobbit when it comes to food."

"Speaking of hobbits, Gandalf," said Legolas, "do you know where Merry and Pippin are?"

"Oh, they are quite safe with an old friend of mine," said Gandalf. "We have more urgent matters to deal with in Edoras."

"Edoras?" said Gimli. "What business have we there?"

"King Théoden's mind has been overthrown and he has taken to heeding the advice of one Grima Wormtongue who, I fear, is working for Isengard," said Gandalf. "We must hurry to ensure the situation does not progress to a point where there is no way to put it to rights."

"I remember Wormtongue," said Boromir. "But I find it hard to believe any man, even one such as him, can betray his own country!"

"Like Leila said, there is unimaginable darkness in the hearts of men. We must make haste to stop him before he succeeds in preparing Rohan for conquest," said Gandalf.

"But the horses are gone, Gandalf," said Leila. "If we go by foot, it will take a while."

"Do not fret, young lady. The horses are not far. Look, here they come."

As if on cue, a beautiful grey stallion came into view, with the other horses behind him, their tether ropes trailing on the ground as they trotted around the trees. The horse in the front tossed his head as if greeting them, and he deigned to let Gandalf stroke his neck.

"Eru," she heard Legolas whisper. "That is one of the Maeras!"

"His name is Shadowfax," said Gandalf with a smile. He murmured something in an ancient language to the horse. Shadowfax snorted softly. "Your horses pulled out their tethers in their eagerness to meet him, except for this fellow." The wizard nodded at Daffodil, who seemed quite unaware that he was in the presence of equine royalty as he nibbled at the grass.

"So it was you we saw last night," said Gimli.

"Last night? I did not see you last night. No. Whoever you saw definitely was not me, Gimli."

"So it must have been Saruman," concluded Boromir.

"There's no 'must have been'," said Leila firmly. "Not without solid physical empirical evidence."

"That does not matter for the time being," said Gandalf. "What is important is that we reach Edoras before the sun sets tomorrow, so I suggest we should get going."

With Aragorn's help, Leila climbed into the saddle, glad to be in possession of the stirrups once again. They were going to significantly lessen her chance of falling off and breaking her neck, not to mention they allowed her to move with the horse instead of bounding awkwardly in the saddle like a sack of potatoes. In her opinion, Gimli should have accepted his own horse. It would have made for a less bumpy ride.

—

They arrived in Edoras slightly after noon on the second day. From the distance, Leila could see a settlement on top of a hill, very much like those old English forts before they started building great gloomy castles of stone that were so prevalent in fairy tales. Wooden palisades formed the first line of defence. The city looked as if it had been built to be moved at a moment's notice, and it really wasn't much of a city.

The movie sets had been beautiful, and from a distance, the real Edoras looked as if it was beautiful too. However, as they drew closer, she noticed the broken thatched roofs of the cottages and the moth-eaten states of the banners. Golden paint was flaking from the great doors of Meduseld. Something was rotten in the state of Rohan, to bastardize Shakespeare.

People stared at them as they rode up the cobbled path to the Hall of Meduseld. Their faces were gaunt with hunger and their eyes empty of hope. "You'd find more cheer in the graveyard," Gimli murmured. "At least the dead do not have it in them to despair."

"They can't die again," said Leila. "That's one less thing to worry about." It made sense that there would be a food shortage. Chances were that Grima Wormtongue was hoarding all the wealth for himself, and his cronies would be extorting money from the people. With no one to check them, they were free to do as they pleased. She'd seen it many times in history. Well, she hadn't seen it, but she'd read enough to understand the basics.

"Be careful what you say in there," said Gandalf. "We are most likely not welcome."

They climbed up twenty seven stone steps to reach the doors, where they were halted by guards. "Lord Grima has demanded that you disarm before you see the king, milords," said the captain of the guards apologetically.

There was reluctance on the part of Aragorn to hand over Anduril, and he even brought out his title to defend his right to carry a sword before a king —seeing as he was a king himself, although uncrowned— but even he finally conceded defeat. Gandalf persuaded the doorman that he needed his 'walking stick' by leaning on Legolas for support. The wily wizard was taking advantage of the man's honesty. A man who could ride bareback usually had no need of walking sticks. However, an honest man usually did not suspect others of dishonesty, and Hama was completely oblivious to the fact he had been deceived.

Leila, who had left her taser in her saddle bag for fear of wearing a hole in her blazer pocket, only had a pen, which she did not consider to be a weapon. Rhetoric was not going to defeat Grima Wormtongue and his master. Well, not yet.

"Perhaps I should stay outside and guard the weapons?" she whispered. She knew the extent of her fighting abilities, and she wasn't particularly impressed by them.

"That is an excellent idea," said Gandalf.


	4. The Press Conference

**A/N: **Sorry for making you wait so long, guys! I haven't given up on this story at all. I've just been a bit busy with work and a few other things, is all. Thank you for all the lovely reviews. I can't remember if I have replied to all of you, and I'm sorry if you didn't get a reply. I really do appreciate any feedback!

**Chapter 4: The Press Conference**

The doors opened, and even though she'd volunteered to stay outside, both for her own sake and for the sakes of the others, she couldn't stop herself from peeking inside the building.

The main hall itself was not a complicated structure. In fact, it reminded her of what a Viking longhouse should be. It was a long rectangle with great slabs of stone on the floor. The roof was supported by wooden pillars, with exposed wooden rafters, carved to depict significant scenes in Rohirric history. A great iron chandelier hung from the central beam above a cauldron that one could cook a whole cow in. There'd been an empress in China who had tortured her enemies by slowly cooking them in a giant pot. Leila sincerely hoped that was not the purpose of the cauldron.

At the far end of the hall was a raised dais. The throne was a simple chair —it looked a lot like the one back at home she liked to curl up in for a nap on lazy summer afternoons, but without the upholstery— that was covered in the pelt of something big, perhaps a bear or a prehistoric hell-hog. If there were orcs here, then having Daeodons in Middle Earth wasn't such a far-fetched idea. Weren't there a few theories about how Middle Earth was simply prehistoric earth?

The door closed behind the Fellowship, or what remained of it, and Leila was alone with the guards outside. She wasn't too worried about it yet. The Rohirrim tended to be honest and hospitable.

"You worry yourself unnecessarily, Mistress," said Hama. "I promised to keep the weapons safe, and that is what my men and I will do." He seemed offended by her offer to guard the weapons, as if it implied he was not good enough at his job.

"I meant no offence, sir," she said. "It was simply a graceful exit. I do not think a woman such as myself should have anything to do with the affairs of great lords."

"Yet you travel with them," pointed out a younger guard, whose curiosity was unbridled as he looked her up and down, from her alien —exotic— Asiatic features to her structured blazer and her skinny jeans.

"I met them on the road, and they were going the same way as I was," she said. "In these times, it is safer to travel with companions."

"My question is, Mistress, what was a lone woman doing in the wilderness in the first place?" asked the guard.

"Raedwulf!" Hama admonished. "You must forgive my nephew. He does not think before he speaks."

"Forgive me," said Raedwulf with a small bow. His helmet obscured most of his features, but from what Leila could tell, he was blond like most other Rohirrim, with high cheekbones and blue-green eyes that carried more than just a little mischief in them. He couldn't have been much older than her, although the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth indicated he was far more experienced.

That, or he liked to smile. Or both.

"It's a reasonable question," said Leila. So far, her act seemed to be going pretty well. It wasn't so hard to speak in formal language when one was playing a character. In this case, she was a confident travelling storyteller who rode in the company of lords. Hmm…perhaps she could base a novel on that. "I'm a storyteller."

"We have not had a storyteller in Edoras for many years," said Hama. "Lord Grima banished them. He said they brought unsavoury ideas."

How curious. Like scores of tyrants and wannabe tyrants before him, Wormtongue had sought to control the minds of men and the flow of ideas. Too bad it wasn't going to work, if Gandalf had anything to say about it.

"I shall look forward to your tales, Mistress," said Raedwulf. Perhaps he was too young to fully understand the predicament he and his countrymen were in. Young men —according to anecdotal evidence— thought they were invincible, and Raedwulf didn't look much older than her.

"In these dark times, I'm afraid my tales would be a bit silly," she said.

"On the contrary. Dark times are when men are most in need of cheer. You do not look to be from these parts, Mistress, so I daresay you would have some curious tales which none of us have ever heard," said Raedwulf.

She nodded distractedly to be polite, but her mind kept wandering to the doors. Or rather, what lay behind them. "Do you mind if I…had a listen?" she asked.

Hama and Raedwulf looked at each other. "We would love to know what is going on," Hama admitted, "but it would be unseemly for the king's guard to eavesdrop."

"Uncle, she is not one of the king's guard," said Raedwulf.

"Indeed, she is not," said Hama.

"And it would also be unseemly for the king's guard to lay hands on a woman, especially a visitor from such distant lands in the…" said Raedwulf.

"The east, beyond the desert," said Leila. It was becoming easier to say that.

Hama glanced at the other guards. "We neither saw nor heard anything," one warrior assured him. "So long as the girl shares what she hears."

"I always share information," said Leila. "It's what I do for a living."

She pressed her ear against the door. The wood was very thick, but it was loud inside. Gandalf was fighting Saruman, and the others were simply fighting. There were clashes of metal, a dwarf's angry war cry, and the shouts of men.

"What's going on?" whispered Hama.

"They're fighting," said Leila, holding up a finger to indicate she needed them to stay quiet so she could listen some more.

"We need more details," said Raedwulf.

"Wham, bam, bang?" said Leila.

"Not those details."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not so skilled a warrior as to be able to tell what is going on simply by the sounds of fighting," said Leila. "Wormtongue is just about screeching, so I suppose it's not going very well for him."

"Thank the Valar," said Raedwulf under his breath. "I've wanted to spear that whey-faced traitor many a time. Now perhaps someone will do it for me."

"Careful, boy," warned Hama, quickly glancing around to make sure no one else had heard. But they were all too focused on Leila.

"Ooh, they're quiet now, and Gandalf's talking," whispered the girl to her captive audience. Seriously, this was the worst journalism she'd ever done, but it had the most attentive audience ever. "He's doing some magic thing…drawing Saruman out of the king as poison is drawn from a wound. His words."

Murmurs abounded at once.

"Saruman's in the king?"

"Is that why he's been so ill?"

"How did he get inside?"

"He's got magic. These wizards know all sorts of tricks. Don't you know?"

Leila decided she'd done enough bad journalism for one day. Technically, journalists weren't even allowed to eavesdrop. It was not quite up there with hacking as a bad journalistic practise, but it was definitely not condoned by any respected media company. However, this was a special situation and she'd made an exception. It was in the public interest after all. However, the show was over, and if she stepped back any later, she might just get whacked in the face by the door.

She was right. The doors flew open with such speed that if she had been still listening, she'd have had her skull crushed. A protesting and ungainly bundle of fur was thrown out unceremoniously. Grima Wormtongue rolled down a flight of stone steps and then lay curled up at the bottom, moaning pathetically like a whipped dog.

A stately man with a fur coat draped about his shoulders stepped out into the pale sunlight. His mostly grey hair still bore traces of gold. He looked to be about sixty, and on his head was a circlet of gold. There was little doubt about it. This was King Théoden of Rohan. Flanking him were Gandalf and a beautiful woman with golden tresses that flowed down do the small of her back. She was tall and slender, although from the way she held herself, it was obvious she was no soft noblewoman. That sword she held in her hand was also a big clue. Obviously, this was Éowyn.

"The king!" cried Hama, falling to his knees at once. "All hail the king! Long live the king!"

The others followed suit and knelt to do him homage. Leila did the same, although awkwardly. She'd never knelt to anyone before and it made her feel uncomfortable. But, if she was going to survive in Middle Earth, she was going to have to adapt. At least there was no need to prostrate oneself before the king. That had been the custom in her homeland, before they'd finally abolished the monarchy.

"All rise," said Théoden. "Hama, go and fetch Lord Éomer. I request his presence."

"At once, sire," said Hama with a low bow before he went to do his king's bidding.

"And you," Théoden continued, turning to Raedwulf. "Escort Grima to his house, where he will retrieve my sword."

"Yes, sire," said Raedwulf, pleased that the king should have spoken to him. The man seemed to have grown in height, rejuvenated by the new developments. He gave Leila a wink before grabbing Grima by the back of his coat and shoving him down the other flight of steps.

Having given his orders and shown his face to his people, the king turned on his heel and strode back into his hall.

"Come along, lass," said Gimli, beckoning to Leila. "You should have come with us. We were magnificent. I myself caught the worm!"

"I think he surprised them with his ferocity," said Boromir. He was favouring his right side, and his face was covered with a film of sweat, but he didn't seem to be dying. "You were wise to stay out of it."

"I know," she said. "Although there were times when I wondered whether I should have gone in with you."

"Why?" asked the Gondorian.

"I wanted to know what was going on and how you fared," she said.

"Lass, is that your way of saying you were worried about us?" said Gimli with a grin.

"Fine, I was worried," said Leila.

"There was no need to worry," said the dwarf. "We're fine! Look at us! We are brilliant, are we not, lads?"

"Thanks for the reminder," sniffed Leila. "Next time, I'll know not to waste any energy on worrying."

"Well, we were flattered by your concern," said Boromir with a small smile.

"Not I," said Legolas. "Her concern was misplaced, and frankly, it is a little insulting to think you did not believe we could take care of ourselves, Leila."

"You are insufferable, did you know that?" the girl demanded of the elf.

"So I have been told many times," said Legolas. "I never take it to heart."

—

A crowd had gathered at the doors of Meduseld by the time Éomer arrived escorted by six of the king's guard. He carried his sword before him in both hands.

"You dare to bring your weapon into my hall?" asked Théoden.

"Sire, the fault is mine," said Hama. "I was overjoyed at the news of the Third Marshal's release I brought him his blade."

"And I bring it only to offer it to you, Sire," said Éomer as he stepped forward and knelt on one knee before offering Théoden the hilt of his sword. "Take my sword as a sign of my allegiance."

Théoden slowly wrapped his fingers around the leather-wrapped hilt of the sword, moving as if his joints were rusted. With a ring of metal, he slid the sword from its sheath and pointed it at the kneeling Éomer. The younger man slowly raised his eyes to meet the gaze of his king. The tip of his sword was only a few inched from his face.

For a moment, there was silence as everyone held their breath, waiting to see what the king was going to do, and perhaps dreading it. Then Théoden touched both of Éomer's shoulders lightly with the blade. "Rise, Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark," he said.

A collective breath was released as Éomer rose. Éowyn rushed to embrace him. Tears of joy ran down her face. It made Leila feel fuzzy inside. Finally, something good was happening. It might not be much, but a victory was a victory, and Rohan needed every single little victory it could get.

That was when Raedwulf rushed in, announcing that Wormtongue had escaped.

—

He wished the slabs of stone would open up and swallow him. His face burned with shame, and he dared not lift his head. "He _escaped_?" asked the king.

"Yes, Sire," said Raedwulf, feeling like a very small boy who had accidentally let the goat run out of the pen. When he had done that, his father had given him such a whupping he hadn't been able to sit for three days. "He said he was going to look for it inside his house. I waited outside the door. I had no idea he would jump out the window."

"Where has he gone?" demanded Lord Éomer.

"To Isengard, most likely," said the deep voice of the White Wizard. Raedwulf risked glancing up at him. He did not seem angry. "What's done is done, and perhaps it is for the best that he is gone."

"He should be brought to justice!" said the Third Marshal. Indeed, Raedwulf agreed, but he was the reason why Wormtongue could not be brought to justice.

"Milord, if you would allow me, I will ride out to find him," said Éomer.

"What do you say, Gandalf?" asked Théoden.

"What good with that achieve?" asked Gandalf. "You would have your vengeance, but Grima cannot harm anyone anymore. Saruman, however, is dangerous, and riding into his territory would be most unwise. The battle for Rohan is just beginning, Théoden. There are more pressing concerns than Grima Wormtongue."

"What of the guard?" asked Éomer.

"The man's only crime is that of being too trusting," said the Wizard. "Let him make amends for it in the coming battle, for you will surely need every man."

—

Leila stood in the shadows, eager to keep out of the way. Sometimes, she wanted to be noticed, but she wasn't naturally an extrovert. More often than not, she liked being invisible, and she was good at it.

So she was completely taken by surprise when she was approached by a well-dressed woman in a pale grey woollen gown. She had to be a noblewoman, judging by the beautiful silver filigree brooch she wore. "Are you the storyteller who travelled with the wizard?" she asked.

"Yep—I mean, yes," said Leila. "I'm Leila Han."

"Lady Éowyn requests your presence," said the woman.

"Me?" said Leila.

"Unless there is another female storyteller travelling with the Wizard, then yes, you," said the woman. Her face was stern and hard from years of difficulty and living under the shadow of Grima's rule, but she didn't seem malevolent. Besides, if Éowyn sent her, how bad could she be? Leila didn't think she had anything to fear from the Shieldmaiden. She hadn't done anything.

So she followed the woman through the dark corridors of Meduseld, lit by high windows and smoky torches. It probably wasn't dim by medieval standards but hey, she was a girl who had grown up with fluorescent lights.

Éowyn of Rohan awaited her in the antechambers of the women's quarters, where she reigned in place of a queen. Her dress was made of soft green blended wool, with gold embroidery at the neck and the sleeves. Around her waist was a finely worked braided leather girdle with a gold buckle depicting a bucking horse. Her pale blue eyes carefully took in the sight of the dishevelled journalist. Leila unconsciously reached up to make sure there weren't any twigs in her hair or, God forbid, spiders. Far too many arachnids had tried to weave webs in her hair, and one had even tried to crawl down her top one night when she'd been watching _The Vampire Diaries_.

The very thought made her want to shudder.

"Do I frighten you?" Éowyn asked her.

"Um…there's no right answer to that, is there?" she asked.

"There is no wrong answer either," said Éowyn. "I should think very little would daunt a woman who has travelled so far on her own."

"To be quite honest, most things scare me," said Leila. "But I am more ambitious than I am afraid, and if I let my fears prevent me from doing things, I'll never get what I want."

"I like your answer," said Éowyn. "Very few women would admit to being ambitious."

"Ambition is a virtue where I come from, milady," said Leila. "Although, perhaps not amongst women. But why shouldn't a woman want what men want?"

"And what is your ambition?" asked Éowyn.

"I could just say I want to make the world a better place," said Leila, "and I do want that. But I also want wealth and power, and I want fame, and I want the world to acknowledge that I am brilliant, which I'm not sure I am."

"An honest answer," said Éowyn.

"Honesty has always been my best tool," said Leila. "That way, I am in control of the truth and no one can use it against me."

'_Hypocrite,' _said a voice inside her head. '_You lie every day you're here.'_

"I admire it," said Éowyn. "There can never be such a thing as someone too honest." Leila tended to disagree, as foot-in-mouth syndrome was lethal to a career, but the other woman's attention had already turned away from her.

"Lady Aethel," she said.

One of her ladies in waiting stepped forward and curtseyed. "Milady?" she said.

"Tell me, what did Wormtongue promise you in exchange for your loyalty?"

Aethel looked up in shock and fear. "I…he did not promise me anything, and I assure you, my loyalty lay only with you," she stammered.

"Have you not been spying on me for the past six months and passing information to him?" asked Éowyn.

"Please, milady. He threatened my family. What was I to do?"

"You could have come to me, Aethel. We were friends. Why did you not tell me?"

Aethel knelt. "I…It never crossed my mind to tell you. I was so afraid. Please, Lady Éowyn, forgive me. I have wronged you, but I had no choice."

"There is always a choice," said Éowyn. "How can I trust you after this? You will resign. I will tell my uncle you are not well so no one will know of your shame. You will go back to your family's holdings, and you will never set foot in the Halls of Meduseld again. I cannot bear to have you in my sight."

Aethel burst into tears. Two other ladies in waiting helped her to her feet and escorted her out of the room. Leila risked a peek at Éowyn's face. Her expression was neutral, but her face was slightly paler than it had been a moment ago, and her back was as straight as the shaft of a spear. However, other than that, it was impossible to tell how affected she had been by Lady Aethel's dismissal. Aethel's dismissal, while harsh, had also been merciful. Éowyn had protected her by keeping her "I will not tolerate betrayal," she said to her other ladies. "If any word of the real reason behind Aethel's dismissal leaves this room, that person will be the next to go, and I will not be so kind next time."

"Yes, milady," they replied in unison.

Tolkien had written of Éowyn's strength, but Leila did not think he'd mentioned how resolute and how much like a queen she was. It wasn't hard to imagine her taking her place on Théoden's throne should she choose to stay behind this time rather than riding out dressed as a man. She could have been Middle Earth's Elizabeth Tudor.

"Mistress Leila, you are an educated woman, yes?" asked Éowyn suddenly.

"I have had an education," said Leila, puzzled by this line of questioning.

"Do you read?"

"Of course…milady."

"Can you do arithmetic?"

"Relatively well." She'd been in the accelerated math class until she'd put her foot down and refused to do mathematics in her last year of high school. After that, trigonometry ceased to have any meaning for her.

"I am now in need of a new lady in waiting. How would you like to fill that position?"

"Me?" said Leila. "But…I am…otherwise employed." The truth was, who knew what sort of mess she could make as a lady in waiting? She knew next to nothing about etiquette, the only sewing she'd ever done were sock-darning and button-replacing, and as for dressing a lady…she couldn't even zip up her favourite little black dress without her mum's help! And after that display, she was a bit in awe of Éowyn and just slightly afraid.

"It will be temporary, so long as you stay in Rohan. You need something to do," Éowyn pointed out.

"I do," Leila admitted. "Well, if you are sure that you think I'm right for the job, milady, then I would honoured. But…I must warn you. I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing."

"You will learn, I am sure," said Éowyn. "But first, you must bathe. You will be no use to anyone half dead."

"Half alive," said Leila. "In these dark times, one has to be optimistic."

—

"The best course of action is to take your people to Helm's Deep to weather out this storm," said Gandalf.

In the aftermath of the overthrow of Wormtongue and the burial of Prince Théodred, an anxious hush had settled over Meduseld as the people waited for what Saruman would throw at them next. The warriors were sombre, and the king grim but determined to stand his ground, even if it might mean his death.

Boromir glanced at Théoden, who was most reluctant to leave his capital. The Gondorian could not blame him. If it had been him, he would not have wanted to leave Minas Tirith. To abandon the capital was almost akin to conceding defeat. However, one had to be realistic. Edoras was no Minas Tirith, and it was not simply his pride speaking. The wooden palisades might be enough for the occasional small goblin raid, but they would do nothing against thousands of armed giant orcs all trained to fight and kill. As a last resort, they could probably retreat into Meduseld, but what then? The orcs would simply burn them all out. This vast stone hall could easily become a giant oven.

"I will not run like a coward," said Théoden.

"It is not cowardice, but reason, milord," said Aragorn quietly. "Helm's Deep is much more defensible than Edoras. Behind those walls, we have a chance."

"They are right, Uncle," said Éomer. "No one would fault you for putting the welfare of our people before your dignity as king."

"We have riders at Snowbourn. I will send for them," said Théoden.

"But will they arrive in time?" said Éomer. "I think Helm's Deep would give us a better chance at survival."

The king sucked in a frustrated breath through his teeth. Then he turned to Boromir who, thus far, had remained silent. "What is your opinion, milord?" he asked. "Your reputation as a military commander is well known in Rohan. I would like to hear what you think of this. If this were Minas Tirith, would you abandon it, or would you stand and fight?"

"With all due respect, Your Grace," said Boromir slowly. "The situations are quite different. Edoras, for all its beauty, is not a fortress like the White City."

"Théoden, there is no shame in finding a better place to make your stand," said Gandalf. "It is a strategic retreat, not a defeat."

The king sighed. "Very well," he said. "We will make for Helm's Deep, and make our stand there."

"Forgive me, milord," said Boromir, "but I fear I will not be able to accompany you."

"Are you leaving?" asked Éomer. "But why?"

"I have been away from home for too long," said Boromir. "Mordor pushes on our borders and my people need me."

"We need you too," said Éomer. "Please do reconsider, milord. And you will not only be helping us, but your people as well. If Saruman defeats us, Gondor will be facing enemies on both fronts. We need a man of your quality to help us plan our defences. We Rohirrim are not well-trained in the art of defending a fortress."

The Gondorian considered this. There was reason in Éomer's words, but his heart…his heart was longing for the pearly spires of his beloved city. He yearned to know of the situation in Osgiliath, of how his brother was faring in Ithilien, and of his father's health. Denethor had not been the same ever since his wife had died, and on many occasions, it was Boromir and Faramir who had contained the court when the steward himself was indisposed. He was torn.

"Boromir," Gandalf said quietly.

"Very well," said the Gondorian at last. "I will stay, but only if I have your word that when the time comes, you will come to Gondor's aid. We cannot fight this enemy alone."

"You have my word," said Théoden. "Long have our countries be allies. Let us stand as comrades once more."


	5. The Newscaster

**The Scoop on the Rings**

**Disclaimer: ** I don't own anything you recognize. Everything belongs to Professor Tolkien. Leila, on the other hand, is mine. I don't think anyone else would want to own her. The monster pigs are real, but extinct, thank the Valar.

**Chapter 5: The Newscaster**

All of Meduseld was in an uproar as coffer after coffer was loaded onto carts and tied down so none of them would fall off. Packing for a lady was complicated. There were undergarments and normal day gowns, and then there were the gowns one wore to formal occasion. Then there were the toiletries, the food supplies, the medicines…

The list made Leila's head reel and in the end, she'd had to write it all down and tick each item off one by one. "Well, that looks like the last of it," she said as she ticked off the last box. Her sheet of parchment was covered with ink splotches. She'd written with a quill just once before in her life, when she and her brother had been fooling around with duck feathers. It hadn't exactly been a success.

"Well, well, look at you, Mistress Storyteller," remarked Raedwulf. He had been assigned to guard the women's luggage train as punishment for letting Wormtongue escape. He had accepted his punishment with good grace, and really, the only thing he was upset about was being fooled by Wormtongue. "You actually resemble a lady now."

"Are you implying I wasn't a lady before?" asked Leila, putting one hand on her hip and cocking her head in what she assumed was an intimidating manner. However, she had to admit, the dress she was wearing was much more ladylike than her jeans.

One of her fellow ladies in waiting, an older woman called Kaelyn, had given her a few dresses which had belonged to her daughter, who had died in childbirth. At first, Leila had felt uncomfortable about accepting the gift, but Kaelyn had insisted, saying her daughter had had no need for it anymore.

"She was small, like you," she had said. "Her baby was too big for her. She was a practical girl, and I think she would have not wanted her clothes to go to waste. I felt foolish for keeping them out of sentimental reasons. Now I see there was a purpose to it."

It had occurred to her then that the women of Rohan, noble or otherwise, had hard, painful lives filled with restriction, death, and loss. But they did not let themselves be bogged down by self-pity. No one in Rohan had time for therapy. Instead of writing about their tragedies and their personal angst in magazines, they simply got on with their lives and pushed sentiment to one side. Like Kaelyn and her dresses. Leila admired them and pitied them all at once, and thinking about it, she was once again reminded of how many luxuries modern people had taken for granted.

"Forgive me, but you did not resemble any woman I have ever seen," said Raedwulf.

"And do you consider yourself to be an expert on women?" asked Leila.

"I would not have that arrogance, and any man who says he understands women is either lying, or misguided.

"But I must say, it is a pleasing transformation, and you, I think, are full of surprises." He smiled. The lines at the corners of his blue eyes crinkled in a pleasant way, and there was a mischievous turn to his lips. She became flustered by all this male attention, and from a pretty attractive male at that. Who was she kidding? Raedwulf looked like a Norse god.

"If I resemble a lady, then could you possibly be so kind as to resemble a gentleman and help me, please?" she finally said. "I can't get onto my horse, and it's starting to get embarrassing."

She hadn't even finished the last syllable when he put his strong hands around her waist and lifted her into the saddle as if she were a girl half her weight. All right, she was on the lower end of the BMI scale, and at five two, that meant she wasn't very heavy at all, but still.

"Thanks," she said.

"My pleasure," he said as he mounted his own steed. "You do not often ride."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly that. You sit like a woman who is not accustomed to being on horseback, which begs the question. If you did not ride often, then how did you travel over Middle Earth telling stories?"

"I had a cart, but the wheel got broken," said Leila. Rather, she had a car, and she'd once punctured the tyre and had to call her dad to get him to help her change it.

"Your hands are too high," said Raedwulf.

"What?" That was random.

"Your hands. You're holding them too high," repeated the Rohirrim warrior. He pulled up alongside her and then pushed her hands down so they were at the pommel's level. For a moment, their eyes met. He'd removed his helmet. Like most Rohirrim, his blond hair was long. He'd tied it back with a leather thong at the nape of his neck. A fine growth of blond facial hair covered his cheeks and chin. He seemed to be examining her even more closely, his gaze sweeping up and down her form as he assessed her.

"Thanks," said Leila, quickly looking ahead again. She had never had so much male attention —or just attention— before and she didn't know how to deal with it. How did those girls do it? They managed men the way she managed her DVD collection.

"You're welcome," said Raedwulf. He dipped his head before riding off, probably check the other baggage wains. The view from behind was as good as it was from the front. He was completely in sync with his horse, and they moved as if they were one being instead of a primate and an equine.

The line of people and livestock and carts trailed like a long snake from the gates of Edoras, reminding Leila very much of Moses and the Israelites. Beneath her, Daffodil lowered his head to crop some fibrous grass.

"Not now, sweetie," she murmured to him as she pulled his head up. He snorted, as he obviously disagreed with her. There was always time for a snack. She scanned the crowds, searching for her friends. Well, she could call them her friends, couldn't she? They had helped her, and sometimes even joked with her, although they usually just joked about her and her many many mistakes. She hadn't seen them since arriving at Meduseld.

"Are you looking for someone?" said a familiar voice. She glanced up and saw that Boromir had pulled up alongside her.

"And good morning to you too, milord," she said. "I heard you decided to stay."

"I don't know if I did the right thing or not," he said. "But it made sense to stay and fight Saruman."

"As long as you think it's right," she said. "You probably know better than anybody else."

"If you were me, would you have stayed or gone?"

"If I were you, I'd gone insane under the pressure."

"You're dodging the question."

"And you're trying to make me divulge classified information."

"All right. How about you divulge some non-classified information, because I am in the mood to ask questions, and I want answers."

"But I'm the journalist!"

He ignored her claim to the right to ask questions. "What was that man talking to you about? You seemed…agitated."

"I wasn't agitated," she said.

"What were you, then? Was he bothering you?" he asked, his face suddenly filling with indignant concern. Leila had never had a protective older brother figure. She'd had a _younger_ brother; a very different type of creature altogether.

"What? No! He was being perfectly polite and he helped me onto my horse."

"I saw that," said Boromir, raising an eyebrow. "He lifted you up into the saddle. You could have simply asked for a leg up."

"Oh." Leila suddenly blushed. "Was that…inappropriate?"

"In Gondor, yes. The Rohirrim, however, have fewer rules than we do regarding what is appropriate between a man and a woman. I only noticed you did not seem entirely comfortable."

"I'm just not used to male attention, that's all."

"I am sure you would have had suitors—" he paused. "I _assumed_ you would have had suitors, or even a betrothed or a husband. You are of an eligible age to be married, and there is nothing wrong with you…is there?"

"No, there is _nothing_ wrong with me, but I am completely single and unattached," said Leila, trying to bite back her irritation. Boromir was simply being polite, and her world was very different from his. If she'd been born in Middle Earth, she'd probably be the mother of three kids by now. Or, a more likely scenario would be she'd be dead somewhere, having never survived childhood. After all, she was descended from peasants, and poor illiterate ones at that. How could the Gondorian understand that in her world, it was very normal for a twenty-four year old girl to be single? Although, most of her friends had started dating when they'd been teenagers.

"Do you want to know what I think about all of it?" he asked. "Get used to the male attention, because you will receive a lot of it when the news that you are unattached gets out."

"You're delusional," said Leila. "I've been single for twenty four years, and no man has ever been interested in me yet. At least, not in that way." Stalkery people on Facebook didn't count. At any rate, a person's Facebook pictures did not represent them at all. She knew she only posted her best photos. All the other outtakes were hidden in several files on her computer.

"Perhaps the men in your country are blind," said Boromir.

She gaped at him, not really believing what she was hearing. He thought she was…what? Pretty? Attractive? Beautiful? Perfectly tolerable but not pretty enough to tempt him? She wanted to ask him to elaborate, but before the sentence had formed in her mind, he had already ridden off to the front of the column.

"Get real," she muttered to herself. "There's no way in hell he'd find you attractive, girl. He's probably used to attention from some of the most beautiful women in Middle Earth, and it's not as if you're a supermodel."

Having settled that in her mind, she drove her heels into Daffodil's flanks, urging him to keep moving.

—

One by one, the stars appeared in the night sky. They had stopped by the edge of a lake to settle for the night. Dark figures littered the ground. The moon's silver rays danced on the glassy waters as they lapped lazily at the pebbles on the shore.

Boromir leaned against the wheel of a wagon and stared at the stars, hoping to find some answers. All was still and silent. In his mind, he kept on hearing Leila's voice as she'd told her story to an avid audience around the fire earlier that night, attracting more and more listeners as the tale had continued. She'd told a tale of a man, a nobleman's bastard, who had committed the unforgivable crime of murdering his own brother, but had still risen from the ashes to become a champion to his people. It was a tale of honour, love, and redemption.

Redemption. It was something he desperately sought, but it seemed so out of reach. Dying would have been the easier path to take. In the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Leila's slight figure as she sat by the dying embers of a fire. It seemed as if he was not the only one with a lot on his mind. Taking care to make sure no one was paying too much attention, he picked his way between the prone sleeping bodies to her side.

"You cannot sleep?" he asked as he sat on the grass beside her.

"I'm awake, aren't I?" she asked.

"Silly question," he conceded. Then he paused. "Do you…truly believe in second chances?"

"I do," she said, raising an eyebrow at him. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Indulge my curiosity," he said. "Are there second chances even for men who have committed unforgivable crimes?"

"In my school of thought, there is no such thing as 'unforgivable', unless you're a psychopathic serial killer or someone who committed genocide —that's the destruction of an entire race," she said. "Everyone should have a second chance because I know if I did something wrong, I'd want a chance to make things right. Theoretically, at least."

"But do you never think men deserve what happens to them because of something they have done?"

"Every action has a consequence," she said. "Having a second chance doesn't mean not dealing with the consequences, but it means you don't fall down and stay down. You can get back on your feet, y'know? But why are you asking me this?"

"I have been thinking, perhaps…you were not meant to save me."

"I didn't save you. Daffodil did."

"All right, if you insist. Perhaps I was simply not meant to be saved. Perhaps I was supposed to die. And if it were not for you—"

"Daffodil."

"If it were not for you _and_ Daffodil, I would have died."

"But Daffodil and I did burst into that clearing and we did save you, so that is a moot point."

"But what if I deserved to die because of something I did? You have no idea…" He stared at her in a new light. She knew it all. She _knew_.

Leila bit her lip. "I can't tell you what happened in the book," she said.

"That only confirms you do know," he said. "I died in the book, didn't I? Didn't I? You can tell me. That was in the past, and telling me of the alternative past won't change anything. I just want to know."

"But you already know," she said.

"So I was meant to die," he said with a slow nod. "Do you ever wonder whether you should have let me die? Because…I deserve it for what I did. Oh, don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You know everything."

"Not everything," she said. "And now, I know nothing because when I barged into that clearing, I changed the course of history, for better or for worse. But, if you really want know, Boromir, I think someone intended for you to have a second chance, because of all the planes of existence I could have ended up in and of all the people I could have met, I met you first. And while what you did was not commendable, I don't think you deserve to die for it, and apparently someone up there agrees with me because now you have a chance to redeem yourself. I don't know how you're going to go about doing it, but at least you have the opportunity."

"Like your Balian," said Boromir.

"Yes, like Balian," she said with a smile. "I guess you were listening to me."

"To be quite honest, it was impossible not to," he said. "It was a good story."

"I didn't make it up. Some other genius did, and it doesn't take a lot of skill to rehash it," she said.

"You retain information like a sponge."

"Only information I like. Don't try and ask me to remember a set of directions to a place. I tried that once and I ended up being lost in town for hours."

He laughed softly. "I've seen your sense of direction. You like walking in circles a lot."

"You're making fun of me."

"Do you not think it odd that a woman as intelligent as you cannot find north?"

"I was never taught to find north, and back where I lived, we had maps with arrows that told you exactly where you needed to go depending on which way you were facing."

"You really need a husband, if only to tell you when you are heading in the wrong direction again."

"And you need a wife to remind you it's not nice to tease people about their weaknesses."

He became more sombre immediately. "I have thought about finding a wife," he admitted.

"What stopped you?" she asked. "I mean, if it's not too personal to tell, that is."

"I cannot think of starting a family when Gondor's very existence is under threat," said the man, turning to look at her. The lack of light made his eyes look like deep pools in which the stars were reflected. The planes of his face were sharper, and his weariness more evident. "It would be irresponsible of me. Gondor is my mother, my wife, my children. Perhaps, one day, when there is peace, I would like to have sons to teach, daughters to love, and a wife to be my companion for the rest of my life. But I cannot have such distractions right now. Gondor needs me. I must protect my country and my people. I must save them."

Although he kept his voice hushed, he became more animated than she had ever seen him before as he described the rolling green plains and tall stone cities. He knew each level like the back of his hand, and every stone carried meaning. She had a feeling he was no longer talking for her benefit, but for his own as he reminded himself of what he was living and fighting for; the dream that one day Gondor will no longer have need of warrior princes and great war machines.

"The responsibility is not yours alone, Boromir," said Leila. "You shouldn't have to do this all on your own."

"But they look to me to make things right. All of them. My father, my men, my brother…they all look to me, and I cannot disappoint them."

"You're a man like any other man. You're allowed to be imperfect and flawed. In fact, I see it as a defining factor of our humanity."

No one had ever said that to him before. No one had allowed him any room for mistakes. For the first time, Boromir saw Leila in a different light, not as the clumsy, inexperienced girl who screamed like a ringwraith and who could get lost in courtyard. This was what an education could do. It made people rational, it allowed them to see things from a different perspective. She didn't see him as the saviour of Gondor. She saw him as Boromir. Just Boromir. And for that, he was grateful.

"No one has ever said that to me before," he said. "I never thought of it that way."

"Let's look at it like this. If we were perfect, we'd be deities," she said. "But we are not gods. Ergo, it's our right to be imperfect. That doesn't mean we don't strive for perfection, because that makes us better people. You just have to accept you'll never be perfect, and that it's perfectly acceptable, as long as you don't stop trying."

She had become animated as she spoke, waving her hands about to emphasise her points. He had never seen a woman so passionate about something that was no related to clothing or marriage or children. Well, except Lady Éowyn, who was very passionate about her country. But she was a Shieldmaiden and a daughter of kings. Leila…was the daughter of a merchant and a teacher, and the granddaughter of peasants and labourers. What sort of world she must come from, to allow a girl from such lowly means to rise so high as to become a scholar and a writer of the first draft of history!

"I'm sorry, did I lose you?" she said.

"No," he said. "I was merely wondering at your eloquence on the matter at hand."

"I feel very strongly about it," she said.

"It heartens me to hear you explain it," he said, "for I suddenly think that perhaps you are right, and I might not deserve to die for what I have done."

"Of course I'm right," she said. "I'm a journalist. I have to be right."

—

The journey continued. It was as if Helm's Deep was the Promised Land and the Rohirrim were the confused Israelites who spent forty years wandering in a very small area. Leila bit back her grumbles and concentrated on making sure Daffodil did not stop for a snack again. All her muscles hurt and there was a crick in her neck from having slept on uneven ground. She missed her bed so much. And her computer, and her family, and her car… She didn't like driving very much, but damn, she actually missed that machine. It was a big Beemer with a lovely powerful loud engine and an excellent acceleration rate, and driving on the highway was a dream…

Endless plains stretched out on her left, and on her right was a sheer cliff of exposed rock that was over fifty metres high. Or perhaps it was twenty five. Leila hadn't bothered to make a more accurate guestimation. Whenever she found herself looking down from any great height, she either had the urge to fall or faint, or perhaps both. She wasn't going to risk it. Middle Earth probably didn't have any emergency rescue helicopters, and it was unlikely anyone would survive such a fall anyway.

A sudden shout interrupted her musings about helicopters and bungy jumping. "What was that?" she asked.

"I am not certain," said Éowyn. There was another shout, and this one was much clearer. The single word sent chills down Leila's spine.

"Wargs!"

It was a one syllable word with five letters, but it was enough to send the entire company into panic. The children began to scream and cry. People started running in every direction, and it seemed if they were not going to be killed by giant canines then they were going to be trampled beneath the feet of their fellow humans.

"Leila, you have to get these people to Helm's Deep!" shouted Éowyn above the din.

"Wait, what?! Me?!" Was Éowyn asking a girl who could get lost with a working GPS to _lead people to someplace she'd never even been before? _And _without _a working GPS? "No, I can't! You have to do it!"

"I want to stay and fight!" said Éowyn. "And none of the warriors can be spared. You've travelled this far! Surely you can find your way to Helm's Deep?"

"No!" She hadn't meant to come to Rohan, after all. She'd wanted to go to someplace in rural New Zealand, and one only had to look at how well _that_ had turned out. She wasn't even _in_ New Zealand anymore. No one in the world had ever become as spectacularly lost as she had, of that she was certain. "We need you, milady. Please! I don't want to lead them over a cliff or towards Isengard!"

For a moment, she thought Éowyn was about to refuse, but duty won over the desire for valour, and she sighed. "This way! Follow me. Quickly!"

The young journalist risked glancing back. The riders were rallying to a green banner flying proudly against a pale grey sky. They looked so small and so few. Her friends were among them. Aragorn, Boromir, Gimli, Legolas… She remembered the conversation she'd had with Boromir the night before. She didn't know anything about what was going to happen now because history had already been changed. _She _had inadvertently changed it. There was every chance in the world that some of them could die in this charge. Now she understood what the wives of veterans had meant when they'd said the waiting was the worst part of a war.

She might not have been to church in a very long time, and she might have fallen asleep during every sermon, but she still held onto the hope there was a God. Now she prayed her friends would come out of this alive and hoped that He was listening to her.

—

The baying of the wargs grew louder. As they got closer, Boromir's eyes widened. These were not just wargs. He knew wargs and he knew how to fight them. But some of the orcs were riding beasts he had never encountered before, nor had he heard of them until now. The creatures were over nine feet tall at the shoulder and they looked as if they weighed as much as four horses. Their legs were short and relatively spindly compared to their barrel-like bodies. Their skulls were three feet long. Tusks protruded from their pig-like snouts. These _were_ pigs. These were big, ill-tempered pigs.

"I do love bacon," murmured Gimli. He tightened his grip on his axe.

The two armies clashed. Horses were bowled over. The pigs' jaws crushed bone and armour as if they were nothing but eggshells. They were slightly slower than wargs, but what they lacked in speed, they more than made up for in power. They stopped for nothing and no one.

But they had one weakness. These animals clearly despised one another. Unlike wargs, there was no pack mentality. The pigs were just as ready to kill each other as they were their enemies. Perhaps that was what was going to save them. He dug his heels into his horse's flanks and urged the animal to charge into the side of one of the pigs. His sword sang as it cut through air and then into the animal's thick hide. The creature roared, more in anger than in pain and turned to snap at Boromir, but the Gondorian was too fast for it. He wheeled his horse out of the way and spurred it on. The pig followed. It didn't care what it trampled or gored or crushed between its jaws. Orcs, men, wargs, horses, other pigs; it was all the same for the beast. Anything that was not itself was the enemy.

Bone and flesh were torn and crushed. Blood stained the arid soil black. The claws of the wargs and the hooves of the pigs and horses tore into Rohan's earth. Iron shod feet churned the mud. Arrows flew in every direction. The pig was bent on destroying the man who had dared to challenge it. It barrelled towards the Gondorian. He tried to swerve to avoid it but his escape was blocked by horses and men.

The pig swung its huge head like a hammer at the horse and rider. Boromir jumped from the saddle just in time as his horse was sent flying into the other riders and their steeds, as if they had all been nothing more than a child's toys to the pig. He barely avoided being crushed beneath the pig's hooves rolled as it charged at the fallen horse, completely focused on destroying it. Somehow, it hadn't realized that it was the rider who was responsible for the glancing blow on its shoulder. It might have had brawn, but it did not have brains. That, at least, was one good thing about it.

As the hog's belly passed over him, Boromir thrust his sword upwards into the softest part of the beast's body. The animal's momentum caused the blade to rip through its abdomen. Blood and other bodily fluids spurted onto his hands and face as steaming intestines slithered out like glistening purple ropes. The animal stumbled and somersaulted before landing on the ground, its legs still kicking feebly at air as it tried to take one last bite at the man who would become its killer.

Boromir had no time to marvel at the fact he was still alive. Actually, he wasn't quite certain he was, but no matter. So long as he could still wield a sword, he would fight, dead or alive or anything in between.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gimli swinging his axe with deadly effect, and in his other hand, the dwarf wielded a flaming torch like a sword. So were half the Rohirrim. The orcs had mostly been killed, but it was their steeds that caused the most trouble. Boromir caught the trailing reins of a horse and swung himself into the saddle. The animal was terrified, as it ought to be, but it was a warhorse, and it had been trained never to run.

"Still alive?" called Legolas.

"I think so," Boromir replied as the elf handed him a torch and lit it with his own.

"They're big pigs, but still pigs," said the elf. "And, as you know, the Rohirrim are excellent herdsmen."

Bit by bit, the animals were being driven towards the edge of the cliff by the men. The pigs and wargs were just that; dumb beasts that only had basic instincts and very little understanding of the world around them. They feared fire, and fire was what the men had turned to as they waved their torches and set the dry grass alight.

The ground shook as the animals all ran away from the leaping flames. Their roars of fury and fear were deafening.

And then, everything fell silent as the beasts tumbled off the edge into the deep gully. Only the flames continued to crackle.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I really couldn't resist putting in the giant terminator pigs. If Leila can teleport to Middle Earth, why _not_ extinct monsters from the Eocene and Miocene?


	6. War Correspondent

**The Scoop on the Rings**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except Leila. The rest belong to Professor Tolkien. The pigs, however, were real and exist in Earth's fossil record.

**Chapter 6: War Correspondent**

Helm's Deep was nestled against a sheer black cliff, reminding Leila very much of a father Emperor Penguin and his chick. A narrow causeway, just wide enough to admit four horses side by side, led up to the wooden gates of the outer walls. The stones had been worn smooth by years of rain and millions of feet and hooves. She was thankful it was dry, because if it had been raining, someone would be bound to fall off it. Probably her.

Metal spikes adorned the wooden gates, which had been darkened by age. They opened with a groan. Many people had already come here, seeking shelter. The outer walls were one and a half metres thick and made of solid rock. Standards of green and gold flew proudly from the battlements. Guard towers were placed at regular intervals along the outer walls. They were nothing more than rectangular stone rooms with narrow slits for windows so the men within could shoot out easily, but other archers would find it difficult to shoot at them.

A captain rushed out to greet Éowyn. She ignored his flattery and cut straight to business, demanding to know how much food had been stored and whether they had enough provisions for the injured. She eyed the captain disapprovingly when he told her he had no idea what they had in the keep.

"I have a clerk for that, but I cannot find him, milady," said the man.

"Have you no written records?" asked Éowyn.

"Yes, but the clerk keeps them," the man replied, digging himself deeper and deeper into the hole.

"And you never thought to look at them?" she asked. The man shook his head. Éowyn sighed. "Leila, go and find the clerk. Tell him to show you the store rooms. I will be with you shortly to find out what we have in the way of provisions."

Leila hurried to do as she was asked, glad to have something to take her mind off the wargs and the fighting. She couldn't help but worry. 'They're good at what they do,' she told herself. 'They'll be fine.' She just wished she could believe it.

After what felt like three hours of getting lost in the winding passages of the fortress—although her watch told her it had only been forty five minutes— she finally located the clerk, who was not really a clerk but a warrior whose father had been a clerk, so he knew all about stock taking.

She was in the middle of calculating how long the grain would last when the herald's shout broke her concentration. She handed her chalk and slate to the clerk. "I'll be right back," she said. He was about to protest, but she was already gone.

The clattering of iron-shod hooves echoed in the vast space of the stone fortress. "Make way for the king!" the heralds were shouting. She dodged between people, bunching her long skirt in her hand so she would not trip as she weaved through the crowds and carts in her desperation to make sure that her worries were completely unfounded. Wargs were, after all, wargs, and since the warg attack only happened in the films, she was worried Aragorn might have fallen over the cliff, and if so, what if he didn't survive this time?

'Oh, stop being so morbid,' she tried to scold herself. 'Aragorn can't die.' But this wasn't just a story anymore. It was real. All of it. What if, to balance out Boromir's survival, someone else on the good guys' side had to go? 'It's not an equation. Life does not have to be balanced out at every turn.'

_But it usually is. _

She tried to banish that thought from her mind. She would find out soon enough. She rounded another corner and almost skidded on the smooth stone as she came to a sudden stop. They were all there. Aragorn, Boromir, Gimli, Legolas. Everyone who was supposed to survive had survived, and so had some that had not been meant to live. Their clothes and faces and hands were splattered with blood and dirt and God knew what else, and they looked as if they had been dragged under a bus for a few kilometres —except Legolas, who _still_ looked pristine. Seriously, what was the elf's secret? She'd like to know, because no one in Middle Earth had time for daily baths.

"You're alive," she said breathlessly as she ran up to them.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Leila," said Legolas. "Were you expecting casualties?"

"Stop twisting my words around. I'm just glad you're all right," she said.

"We very nearly weren't," said Boromir. "If those giant pigs had been a little more intelligent, they would have wiped us out."

"What giant pigs?" she asked. "I thought it was a warg attack."

"There were wargs too," said Aragorn, "and also giant pigs. They were unlike anything I've ever seen before. They could charge at anything and win. Their teeth crushed bone and steel as if they were egg shells."

Why did it sound so familiar? Giant killer pigs. "Terminator pigs?" she asked.

"I like that," said Legolas. "Terminator pigs would describe them perfectly. It was like trying to kill a very fast troll."

"They have these huge protrusions of bone on their cheeks, don't they?" she asked. "And their front legs are a lot longer than their hind legs?"

"How did you know?" asked Aragorn. "Are there terminator pigs where you come from?"

"There used to be," said Leila. "They went extinct millions of years ago."

"How did that happen?" asked Boromir.

"The climate changed," said Leila.

"That's helpful, lass," said Gimli. "I was hoping you would have a way to kill them."

"I don't kill my own pork—I mean— pigs. It comes from a shop, minced or sliced, however you want it," said Leila. "Anyway, even if we did have those pigs, no one would have tried keeping them for their meat. They're scavengers and they eat carrion. Not exactly appetizing. How _did _Saruman get any, anyway?"

"That question is not one that needs an immediate answer at present," said Aragorn. "I am simply grateful that they are not intelligent, and they cannot climb, so we are safe from them now that we are behind walls. I cannot, however, say the same of orcs. Come, my friends. As weary as we are, Saruman's forces will not rest. We must prepare for a siege."

—

Maps were strewn over the table. Smokey torches cast long shadows over the diagrams. In the background was the incessant scratching of a quill on parchment. Ten days. That was how much food they had. Leila had done the calculations three times, and all the other clerks had agreed with her. Their supplies would last ten days; fourteen, if stretched. One clerk's suggestion that the common people be limited to one meal a day was soundly rejected. They were all equals in this war, in theory if not in truth, and they had to maintain the illusion of equality if they were to have any chance of winning.

"Speed is the key," said Aragorn. "I would have them attack sooner rather than later."

"Unfortunately, Saruman's schedule has not been made known to us," said Legolas. "Although I doubt he will waste time in besieging Helm's Deep. How long he is planning on besieging it is another matter entirely. It would be so easy for him to starve us out."

"It will be three days before Gandalf gets here," Gimli reminded them. "So it means we will only have to hold the keep for three days."

"You have a lot of faith in the wizard, milord," said an old weathered general.

"We have reason to," said Éomer. "If not for Grey Wanderer, who knows what could have happened to us by now?"

"I have sent a rider to my father, asking him to come to Rohan's aid," said Boromir. "But Gondor is also burdened by attacks from the east. I do not know if he will send men. And even if he does, it will take them time to get here. At least three days, and that is for light cavalry only."

"Can we hold the fort for three days?" asked Théoden.

"We can, Uncle," said Éomer.

"Of course," said the king. "We have no other choice, do we?" He shook his head as he turned back to the plans and maps. His shoulders were slumped from the great weight he carried. There were so many superfluous and pointless words they could have said to comfort the king, but instead, they remained silent, each knowing that words would not be enough to win this battle.

"The orcs will mostly concentrate on breaking down the gate," said Boromir. Planning for the siege was the most helpful thing they could do right now. "We will need men above the gates to stop them from reaching it." He would have preferred siege engines, but the Rohirrim were not used to sieges and they had not made any preparations for one. "The archers will be our first line of defence. Behind them should be two rows of men, ideally."

"The question is, do we have enough men?" asked Théoden.

"We have three thousand men capable of fighting," said Éomer. "How many does Saruman have?"

"No one knows," said Boromir, "although I would imagine his army would have no less than ten thousand."

"That would be one against three and a third," said Gimli.

"If our men were all seasoned soldiers, I would not worry so, Master Gimli," said Théoden. "But our men are mostly farmers and herdsmen, not warriors."

"Then we will turn them into warriors, milord," said Boromir. "Let every man capable of bearing arms become a knight." If it could work for Balian, then why not for Rohan?

—

It was something unprecedented, and something which Leila had never thought she'd see, let alone inspire. The small courtyard was filled with men. Yes, just men. Rohan had not become liberal enough to knight women yet. Heck, even modern England hadn't seen fit to knight women, so she supposed she could cut Rohan some slack on that front. For now.

Théoden stood at the top of the stone steps, flanked by his men. Above him, the banners flew in the wind, making the embroidered horses look as if they were flying over the plains, free and unconquerable.

"It's magnificent, isn't it?" came a voice from behind her. Gimli stood there, leaning on his axe. "I suppose we have you to thank for it."

"I've never seen or felt anything like it. The hope, the unity—people were never this united back where I came from," said Leila.

"Did you not have this Balian?"

"He's not real. I mean, there was a Balian, yes, but he wasn't a perfect knight and he wasn't so honourable, and he only knighted the bailiffs and the soldiers, not every single man in Jerusalem," she said in a low voice. She didn't want anyone to hear it. The Rohirrim needed the encouragement; they needed to be able to place their faith in something and someone, and if they were drawing parallels between Théoden and this fictional perfect knight, then it was a good thing for Rohan.

"You lied? Again?"

"It's not a lie. I never said he was real. Just like I never said Zeus and all those crazy gods were real. And sometimes, you have to do a little evil to do a greater good, right?"

The men knelt at Théoden's command. Their spears glinted in the pale sunlight filtering through the grey clouds, like a thicket of stars. She supposed it was really too romantic a simile. There was nothing poetic about these spears. They were tools of death.

"Sons of Rohan," began Théoden. "The hour of our reckoning has come. Beyond those horizons, our enemies march upon our borders. It is the hour to show your mettle. It is the hour to defend the land that birthed you and raised you. We do not fight for stones and grass. We fight for mothers and fathers, our brothers and sisters, our sons and daughters. We shall show no fear. We shall not shame the blood of Rohan that runs in our veins. Rise, sons of Rohan. Rise as knights!"

Gimli turned to Leila. "Well, lass, let's hope that this idea taken from this non-existent knight holds water. Otherwise, we are…" he trailed off.

"In my country, we'd say we're screwed," said Leila.

—

They were all talking; whispering amongst themselves and exchanging meaningful glances. They had been doing that before, but this time, it was different. They were not doubting whether they could live out the night. They had faith they could hold out long enough for reinforcements to come. The king's mass knighting ceremony had had its effect. Carpenters and masons went back to strengthening the gates with more fervour than before. The soldiers no longer questioned whether there was any point in fighting.

"I cannot believe you are relegating me to the caves!" Éowyn was saying to her uncle. Leila, being a curious busybody, was listening in on the conversation. It didn't seem private, because if it were, they would not be talking so loudly so close to her. It wasn't as if she was going to publish it, so she deemed it ethical.

"War is no place for a woman, Éowyn," said Théoden. "The women and children need your presence. You will steady their hearts and maintain order in the caves."

"Surely there is someone else who can do this?" said Éowyn. "I can fight."

"You are my sister's daughter," said the king firmly. "It is your duty to do this, and let this be the end of the conversation."

Leila risked glancing up, hoping no one would notice her. She was, after all, quite good at being not noticed, which hardly helped with her line of work, but it worked very well in situations where she was just being nosy. Éowyn looked as if she wanted to say something more, but she was holding it back because she knew there would be no way to convince her uncle, and there was no one else there who held her view that women should be able to fight.

The young reporter supposed that she, being a modern woman and all, would have been able to come up with a few arguments, but the last thing she needed to do was to offend anyone, especially royalty. No, she didn't believe people born to certain stations in life truly deserved more respect than others —she was a liberal feminist journalist, after all— but she understood that not everyone agreed with her. Politicians, for example, were treated with more respect than they usually deserved, but no one truly questioned it because they were who they were. Ergo, calling the prime minister a smarmy prick was out of the question, at least in public.

Théoden was far from a smarmy prick. He was just being an honourable, archaic, medieval man. He'd been brought up in a patriarchal society with patriarchal conventions and this was all he understood. Men did the fighting, and women did the nurturing. Leila decided then that these people needed to be introduced to Boudicca, a Celtic queen who almost drove the Romans out of Britain.

People filed slowly into the caves, lugging their meagre belongings, all bundled up in ragged blankets or piled into handcarts, behind them. Children clung to their mothers. They all marked out their own spots on the hard sandy floor and tried to make it as comfortable as possible. "I don't like it," whined one little boy. "It's dark."

"It will be fine," his mother murmured to him.

"There are monsters," the boy insisted.

"The king and his knights will keep them away," the woman promised.

Daffodil, being an excellent packhorse and a mediocre warhorse, at best, was relegated to the caves as well. He also did not like them, and it took a lot of coaxing, a few bits of a dried up carrot that did not look fit for human consumption, and a rag around his eyes to get him inside. The sound of his hooves striking rock echoed within the caves.

They only had a few torches, but the light reflecting off the minerals embedded in the rocks gave them more than enough to see by. If they had not been in such a dire situation, Leila would have imagined that she was suspended in the middle of the universe, surrounded of all the stars that had been, were, and would be. No wonder Gimli —in the books— had so marvelled at the beauty of the Glittering Caves. She just hoped there would be no falling stalactites once the battle and bombardment started.

After helping the others establish their 'camping' spots on the flattest parts of the cave floor, she settled in a corner and tried to make it as comfortable as possible with a few sacks of grain and a blanket over them. It was like lying on beanbags, really. For the first time in many months, she actually had nothing to do except lie there and listen to all the clamouring inside her head. Her body was exhausted. Her mind, however, was freer than it had been when she'd been back in her civilization, working her ass off and being bored to death because she was still waiting for her life to start, and she needed the money to start it. Now she was just trying to survive. Facing impending apocalypse seemed easier than being a cog in the corporate machine. For one, no one called you a failure if you died during apocalypse.

Above her, the sounds of construction filtered through as craftsmen reinforced the gates. She knew people would be carrying rocks and logs onto the battlements to use as projectiles, and wondered if Rohan had anything in the way of siege engines, or perhaps even boiling oil. Or water. Boiling water worked too, just not as beautifully. If only this had happened back in her world, then she really would have a story, and there would be no need to write about the Salvation Army's little fundraising projects or whatever happened to the runaway sheep. Then again, knowing little ole New Zealand, such a war was most likely going to happen in some far away country that no one in New Zealand cared about, and it would probably warrant half a page on page four of the world news section at the very most. Actually, they didn't even have four pages of world news. They had to save pages for the sport section.

"I admire you for being able to sleep at a time like this," said Éowyn as she sat down on a sack beside Leila, clearly agitated and restless. She wore a sword at her hip, and she kept fingering it.

"Panicking isn't going to help the men, milady," Leila said. She sat up and tried to get to her feet. It was not proper to be lying down when the king's niece was talking to her. Unfortunately, her feet got tangled up in her long heavy skirt and it wasn't exactly easy to balance on sacks of grain. She fell back down on her ass. At least there would be no bruises.

Éowyn sighed. "They should have let us help them fight," she said.

"They should have let _you_ help them fight, milady," said Leila. "Me, I'd be dead in half a second, tops."

"Do you not want to fight for those you love?"

"Yes, but my preferred weapon is the pen. I don't think the orcs care what I write about them."

"That is true." Éowyn rubbed her temples with her fingers. "I hate not knowing what is going on."

"You just have to have faith, I guess," said Leila, trying to be encouraging. She also hated not knowing, especially since her friends were out there. "I mean, these odds are not the worst I've heard of."

"It's ten thousand against one thousand," said Éowyn in a low voice, afraid of letting anyone else hear it.

"Helm's Deep is an excellent fortress, milady. It improves those odds dramatically. Three hundred men were able to hold off tens of thousands of attackers at Thermopylae—that's an incredibly narrow pass in the mountains. In the case of geography, I do think we have the upper hand, and I believe one Rohirrim warrior is worth ten orcs."

The statistic was actually pulled from Crusader history, where one hundred heavily armed Frankish knights had defeated an army of one thousand light cavalry, but she wasn't about to compare the details.

"I wish I had your faith," said Éowyn, "but I have seen too much loss and defeat."

"Not to exaggerate because they are my friends, but Aragorn and Boromir and Legolas and Gimli are all very excellent warriors and commanders. Combined with your uncle the King and Lord Éomer, I think they are _more_ than a match for Saruman's orcs."

"Indeed, Lord Aragorn is an exceedingly skilled commander, and I do have every faith in him," said Éowyn. "Perhaps you are right, Leila of the East. I am simply worrying too much."

—

Night had fallen. Thunder rumbled in the distance and clouds rolled in, bringing in the scent of rain. At least no one would be burning any keeps tonight. Boromir looked at his men. They had little experience in sieges, and some of them had never even fought in a war before. There were boys whose swords were even taller than them. How were they even going to survive, let alone win?

But he had to believe. He had to have faith. What other choice did he have? If Rohan fell, Gondor stood little chance of surviving onslaughts on both fronts, and he could not even contemplate the notion that Gondor would fall.

Lightning flashed, and it started to rain. The cascade of water veiled the distant plains. The sound of cold water droplets striking armour sounded like the softer version of a shower of arrows. "Well," said Gimli. "In case we don't make it, I want to say it's been an honour, and not boring at all."

"That is great praise coming from you, Master Dwarf," said Boromir. "Let's hope we'll live to hear you praise us some more."

"Cherish the moment, lad," said the dwarf. "It won't happen again. And really, Legolas, you should have let me pick the spot. The view here is atrocious."

Legolas was about to give a smart retort, but something caught his attention. "Look!" he cried, pointing into the distance.

"Is it the orcs?" demanded Gimli.

"No," said the elf. "It's reinforcements."

"But who would send them?" asked Éomer. "Gondor?"

Boromir shook his head. "Gondor's men would not have reached us so quickly," he said.

"It is not Gondor," said Legolas. "It is my kin."

"Your father sent warriors?" asked Gimli.

"Not my father. The Lady Galadriel. Haldir leads them."

The elves seemed unfazed by the rain as they marched in through the gates of Helm's Deep, to the astonishment of all the men. Most of them had never seen an elf before Legolas had come; they certainly had not seen so many elven warriors marching in complete unison.

"How is this possible?" whispered Théoden.

"The lady Galadriel sends word, milord," said Haldir with a bow. "It was not so long ago in the eyes of the elves that our two peoples fought alongside one another. We come to honour that tradition."

—

It was very quiet. Too quiet. Leila tried not to imagine the worst case scenarios —like millions of orcs with trebuchets and Greek Fire and giant siege towers pulled by Terminator Pigs. Worrying about Helm's Deep wasn't going to help anybody. Someone had to stay calm in these caves, and it looked as if it was going to be her and Éowyn. Everyone else was relying on them. She was the one with the imagination, and Éowyn was the king's niece. In this place, she might as well have been queen.

But Leila couldn't help it. What _was_ going on up there? She hated being so out of contact. Back home, she cherished her quiet days when she could cut off contact with the outside world, just for twenty four hours or so, while she recuperated from being in contact all the time. Right now, however, she wished, more than anything, there could be some way of communicating with the outside world.

'Focus,' she told herself. 'You are a journalist. You are designed to work under pressure. Think of it as war reporting.' But war correspondents knew what was going on. She had no clue.

She tried to concentrate on making up a story to tell once they got out of here and were in the mood to ask for stories. Plagiarizing Hollywood didn't seem to be very honest, especially since she was not crediting the original creators and writers. The flickering flames made it seem as if the sparkling crystals in the caves were flashing like disco lights. Leila focused her eyes on them, hoping they might be able to hypnotize her. Her heart hammered in her chest so loudly that for a moment, she thought she was hearing war drums.

Then she heard it. The ground rumbled in protest beneath the orcs' iron shod feet. There was a steady booming, like drums, but louder, as they struck their shields with their spears. Even down here, beneath all those layers of rock, they could still hear the challenging war cries of those beasts. In the dim light, she could see people staring around wildly, as if wondering whether the cave's ceiling was going to collapse under such an assault of sound. The whites of their eyes gleamed in the dim light, and their pupils were dark pools of fear.

Leila tried to shut out the fear she was feeling —good journalists had to be able to compartmentalise during times of great stress— but there was only one voice in her head, and it was telling her they were all screwed.

"Oh, why are you so afraid?" she muttered to herself. "Death is just a part of life. Everyone dies sooner or later."

But there were so many things she wanted to do before she died. Like win a Pulitzer, write her novel, buy a pair of Louboutins, fall in love, get a cat…

'And you will do all those things,' she insisted in her mind. 'Have some faith. Those guys know what they're doing, and they won in the books and the movies.'

But that was the books and the films. Now that she was here, and now that she'd saved Boromir, everything had changed. She could no longer rely on canon material as a guideline anymore. Things were going to happen differently. Any first year history student would understand that. It was common sense.

—

The arrows flew in both directions. In a battle like this, aim did not matter as much as numbers. If one fired enough arrows in enough directions, one was bound to hit something. And the Uruk Hai did not aim as badly as their goblin kin.

"Hold!" Boromir shouted to the men and boys stationed on the wall with rocks at the ready. What would he give for some boiling oil. And some of that 'Greek fire' substance Leila had talked about. But that was just pointless dreaming. He had rocks and logs and boiling water. The Rohirrim did not have catapults, and there had not been enough time to make any.

The arrows thinned, signalling the first charge of the orcs. Boromir's breathing became shallower as they neared the base of the wall. "Now!" he cried.

Rocks and logs tumbled down, splitting open skulls and crushing rib cages. The orcs continued, as if oblivious to the deaths of their…comrades? Did orcs consider each other comrades? It might have seemed pointless to wonder about how orcs saw the world, but to win, one must first understand one's enemy. One of the reasons orcs were so successful was because they had absolutely no empathy. They were capable of as much cruelty as their tiny minds could conjure.

Their glistening black bodies swarmed up the ladders like ants. "Boiling water, now!" shouted Boromir.

There were terrible screams as the orcs were scalded by the cascade of bubbling water. But there were only so many cauldrons. It was not enough to hold them back. Once the water was all gone, the orcs charged again. This time, there was little they could do to push them back. They surged up against the walls, a wild wave of violence breaking on the rocks. The wave crested, and orcs spilled onto the battlements. Boromir plunged his sword into the belly of one orc. Hot blood splashed onto his hands. He yanked the blade out, slicing the orc's abdomen and letting the guts slide out onto the wet stones. He swung around to parry yet another blow. His shoulder ached as the vibration went through his blade and down his arm. He feinted to one side and as the orc moved to mirror him, he found an opening.

The creature roared as Boromir's sword went through its rib cage, but it was not finished. Somehow, despite the mortal wound, it managed to continue moving. Its blood bubbled from its mouth as it swung at Boromir. An arrow flew over his head and embedded itself in the orc's eye, going through the back of the eye socket and into the brain.

The Gondorian turned to find Legolas. "Twenty three," said the elf.

"That one was mine, Son of Thranduil," said Boromir.

"Truly? It was still about to take off your head when I shot it."

"It was dying anyway."

More ladders were being propped up against the walls. The long hooked spears were being used to push them back down, but the Rohirrim were not skilled in the art of defending fortresses. They were warriors who lived and died in the saddle. Stone walls were alien to them.

Great hooks were fired inside the fortress, with ropes threaded through the loop at the end. Using the rope, the orcs hauled up ladders that were already laden with armoured Uruk Hai. This was new. The orcs of Mordor had often used siege towers, but never before had they utilized such ladders.

A contingent of orcs were slowly marching up the causeway, using their shields to form an impenetrable shell. If he had had the right materials —black oil, for one— then he could have roasted them, but right now, there was little he could do except command the men to bombard them with rocks.

The projectiles bounced off the heavy metal shields uselessly. The orcs' ranks parted to let a battering ram through, although why they even bothered, no one could really guess.

As it turned out, there was no need for the ram.

—

**A/N: **And one more chapter before I have to go back to real journalistic work, where Salvation Army clothes drives and the local cupcake competition is considered news. If _only_ Uruk Hai and Terminator Pigs would attack our city…


	7. Stylebook Rules

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything you recognize. Only Leila and Daffodil are mine.

**Chapter 7: Stylebook Rules **

The muffled booms and screams all filtered through. Droplets of water hanging from the stalactites quivered. They had all descended into silence in the caves. Occasionally, a child would whimper, only to be quickly hushed by its mother or sister. Leila had long descended into reciting the rosary under her breath. It wasn't that she believed the rosary had any special powers, but it couldn't possibly hurt and her imagination was contained by her attempts to count how many Hail Marys she'd said.

Then the ground shook. "Earthquake!" screamed Leila, who had spent a year and a half riding aftershocks. The stalactites trembled, and for a moment, she wondered if she was going to be impaled by one. The shaking was quick, violent, and over before she knew realized it was not an earthquake.

This was movie-verse canon, and Saruman had bombs.

—

Rocks flew. The ground shook. Boromir lost his balance, as did all the men and orcs around him. A cloud of dust rose as a section of the wall collapsed. It was all happening too quickly. How had the orcs undermined the wall in the span of only a few hours? It took at least a day, and most likely more, to do such a thing, considering how rocky the ground was and Helm's Deep's solid foundations.

Unless, there was something the Rohirrim had forgotten to tell him…

But it didn't matter.

What really mattered was the orcs were rushing in through the gaping hole in the wall, and if someone didn't dam them up, they would flood the fortress within an hour. He scrambled to his feet. "Rally to me, men of Rohan!" he cried. An orc rushed at him. Boromir sidestepped it, and allowed it to run straight onto his sword. Before the creature had stopped gurgling, the Gondorian had already pulled out his sword and moved onto the next orc in his quest to reach the breach in the wall.

He spat as orc blood got into his mouth. That was one of the hazards of the work he did. From some distance away, he heard Gimli's war cry, a sound that gave hope to his friends and planted fear in his enemies. Boromir and his men surged forward. He lost count of how many orcs he killed. Then again, he hadn't been counting in the first place. Unlike some of his friends, he did not have such a good sense of humour. Or was it a bad sense of humour?

The breach in the wall was a gaping wound in the fortress' side, from which orcs streamed in. The drain. Of course! He should have remembered that drain! He suppressed the urge to curse. That would be of absolutely no use. The orcs' bodies glistened with water, making them seem like a black sea of pestilence. No matter how many of them died, more still rose.

"You're late, laddie! I got a good headstart!" called Gimli as he drove his axe-head into an orc's abdomen, sending the creature —twice the size of the dwarf— flying backwards. "Twenty three!"

"Then you are only five ahead of me, Master Dwarf!" called one of the Rohirrim. It took a while for Boromir to realize it was the man who had accidentally let Grima Wormtongue escape and who had also lived Leila onto Daffodil's back that day.

"There is no time for counting!" shouted Aragorn. "Although I will have you all know I am sure I killed more!"

Just then, something slid down the stairs, and orcs fell as arrows pierced the gaps in their armour. A shield flew and embedded its edge in an orc's throat, and Legolas appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. "Thirty eight, my friends," he said with a smirk.

"He really is insufferable as the lassie says," grumbled Gimli. He probably would have said more, but the second wave of orcs distracted him, and he went back to counting again. Or, Boromir assumed he went back to counting, as he was too preoccupied with defending himself.

"If this goes on any longer, we will be overwhelmed!" shouted Éomer. "Master Gimli, you are a stonemason. Is there no way to fill in the breach?"

"I may be able to do something about it," said Gimli. "I need men, and stones! Quickly!"

The jovial dwarf who had incessantly teased everyone suddenly became a commander as he shouted orders to the men, telling them to bring beams and stones, and instructing them how to hold it all in place by the use of small pebbles to fill in the gaps.

"It won't hold them for long," said Gimli. "It's the worst wall I have ever constructed in my life. If things do not change for the better, then we are…well, screwed."

"At least we will not be screwed just now," said Éomer. It was slightly disturbing how easily Leila's odd lexicon had been absorbed and now everyone seemed to like using the word 'screwed' to describe their situation. Of course, it was also the best word to describe their situation, but while hearing it from the girl herself was one thing, hearing it from the mouths of lords and princes was another, and if the situation had not been so…well, screwed, then Boromir might have even smirked at t he absurdity of it.

As it was, he hardly noticed it until much later.

The orcs kept coming through even as the men began to fill in the gap with stones and whatever else they could find. As soon as they filled in one section, the orcs would break it down again. Aragorn beckoned to the archers still on the battlements above. Arrows rained down on them, driving the orcs backwards momentarily, but they surged forward again, more determined than ever. It was like a rising tide. As each wave retreated, the next one came, reaching even higher, until the entire shore was submerged.

—

"What was that?" Éowyn whispered suddenly.

"What?" said Leila.

"I heard something," said the Shieldmaiden. She picked up her sword, which had been lying, unsheathed, beside her for the entire night.

"Maybe it was a bat?" Leila said hopefully.

"No, I don't think so," said Éowyn. She stilled again. This time, Leila heard it too. The guttural growls sent chills down her spine, and her first instinct —a prey's instinct— was to flee. Or roll into a ball and hope no one would notice her.

'I am _journalist_,' she thought to herself. Her first priority was to gather information and this was front page material. She followed Éowyn, tracing the origins of the sound. She was ninety nine per cent sure they were made by Uruk Hai. After all, there had been this scene in the films —but it had been left out of the final cut, hadn't it? Or didn't it matter? Which version of canon had she royally screwed up anyway?

'Please let it be a bat. Please let it be a bat,' she prayed. Éowyn's torch cast eerie shadows on the walls of the caves. The metal crystals embedded in the rock shimmered like a thousand diamonds. Two hulking shadows were silhouetted against the sparkling background.

Shit. They were screwed.

"Fresh meat," said the first orc.

"I haven't had fresh meat in a long time," said the second one as he grinned, revealing darkened sharp teeth.

"I eat far too many preservatives and additives to taste good," said Leila.

"Leila, get back and warn the others!" shouted Éowyn. She brandished her sword before her, clutching the hilt so tightly with both hands her knuckles were white. This did not look good. Leila scrambled backwards as the Uruks lunged, cursing her long skirt. She slipped and scrabbled over the stones.

"To arms!" she screamed. "To arms!"

Her fear gave her eloquence that she could never have hoped to have on a normal day. Now was the time for her words to really sink in, and she had to make them good words.

"What's going on?" shouted another of the women.

"Orcs have gotten in," said Leila. "Someone tell me we have weapons in this pile of junk!"

"We're going to die!" screamed someone else.

"You can do that, or you could fight and live," said Leila. She located a sickle. Possibly not the best weapon to fight an Uruk with, but it had a sharp blade and was semi-long. It was going to have to do. The boys and men had all the swords.

She had very little idea what she was doing. She'd never killed anything before —spiders and moths didn't really count, and slippers were not truly proper weapons— and she had never seen anyone use a sword outside of the movies. But what sort of person would she be if she didn't do something? She was part of this too. Around her, other women were taking up their own weapons in the forms of meat cleavers, scythes and other farming instruments. Their fear was obvious, but so was their determination to protect their children. The most dangerous creature on earth was an angry, defensive mother.

Éowyn was being slowly beaten back by the Uruks. She might be fast and skilled, but they were strong, and there were two of them. She staggered backwards as she parried. The Uruk was about to deliver a killing blow. Leila didn't know what possessed her, but she was certainly grateful for it, for if it had just been her, her aim would have been nowhere near good enough to hit anything.

She snatched up a metal pot and lobbed it at the orc. The pot struck its metal helmet with a loud clang, stunning it just long enough for Éowyn to kick its feet out from beneath it. The Shieldmaiden scrambled to her feet and leapt out of the way before it could recover.

The other orc snarled and lunged for her, only to be mobbed by the women. It was as if they had suddenly awoken from a slumber, and their anger burned fiercely. All of them had lost something; fathers, husbands, sons, homes, livelihoods.

The orc lashed out at them. Its sword cleaved through flesh, but the women kept coming at it, and when its companion tried to help, it was sucked into the riptide of humanity. Women, in general, were physically weaker than men, but what they lacked in strength and musculature, they made up for with anger and determination. They had lost so much that they had nothing more to lose except their lives, and life was not worth living if their country were lost and their families were dead. They could either submit to the sword of their enemy, or they could fight for a chance to regain some of what they had lost. They had chosen the latter.

An iron shod foot glanced Leila's head, sending her reeling backwards into the seething mass of furious mothers, wives, and daughters. If someone hadn't hauled her to her feet, she would have been trampled.

"You're right," said Éowyn rather breathlessly. Her eyes, however, were gleaming. Whether it was from the

"What?" said Leila. Her ears were still ringing from the blow, and blood from a cut on her forehead was running into her eye. She blinked furiously to try and clear her vision.

"You really would only last half a second in battle," said the Shieldmaiden.

—

They had been forced back behind the inner walls of the keep. The orcs had broken through the outer gates, and flooded the gaping wound in the outer walls. They could not hold out against them for much longer. The men were tired and demoralized, and they had lost too many. The inner gates cracked and bulged as the battering ram struck them on the other side. It was only a matter of time before the wood gave away.

"We cannot hold them," said Éomer as he came to stand beside Boromir while the Gondorian directed men here and there, advising them on the best places to put the bracing beams. "They will breach it by daybreak."

"With some luck, we may yet hold out until Gandalf comes," said Boromir, but he did not quite believe it himself. What other choice did he have, however? He had to have faith. It was the only thing he could cling to. Luck had already saved him once. He doubted he would be so lucky a second time.

His thoughts turned to the unarmed women and children in the caves. If the orcs broke through those gates, they would be slaughtered. Speaking of women and children…

"Éowyn!" cried Éomer. "What are you doing up here? And…and…"

Somehow, against the express orders of the king, the Lady Éowyn had led women onto the battlements. They were armed with meat cleavers and scythes. Blooded meat cleavers and scythes.

"The orcs got into the caves," said Éowyn. She turned to Théoden, who looked as if he did not know whether to berate his niece or commend her for her courage. "We killed them. We can help, Uncle. We are capable of bearing arms, if you would let us."

In terms of numbers, it made sense to Boromir. The women might not have been capable of killing as many orcs as men were, but they were capable of taking some down, and they needed all the sword hands they could get.

But it didn't go down well with him. Women simply did not fight. That was the way of the world. They were nurturers.

'They also defend their children,' said another voice in his mind.

"If we fall here, you will be all that is left of Rohan," said Théoden to his niece softly.

"What will become of us if our country is no more?" asked Éowyn. "Please, uncle. Let those of us capable of bearing arms raise our swords against our enemies. Rohan is in my blood too. There is nowhere for us to go."

The look on her face convinced the men she was not going to go anywhere. No one could force her to do anything against her will; not anymore, and Théoden knew it. Éowyn was a daughter of kings. She was as stubborn as her forefathers. Nobody short of a wizard would be able to convince her to change her mind, and Gandalf was inconveniently absent.

Speaking of Gandalf…

"How many days has it been since we left Edoras?" asked Leila.

"It is the fifth day," breathed Gimli. "Look." He nodded at the slit of the window, through which faint rays were beginning to filter through. "The sun is rising."

—

The sun. Gandalf. Rohirrim from Snowbourn. At least, that was what Leila hoped it all meant. There was still the matter of the ring of tens of thousands of Uruk Hai outside, and the doors were going to splinter any minute.

The men exchanged glances. Éowyn gazed at Aragorn. The young journalist and Gimli shared a look. Théoden nodded at the Heir of Isildur. "Let us draw swords and ride out together, Captain Thorongil," said the King of Rohan. "I have longed for this moment ever since I was a boy."

"The honour is all mine, Théoden King," said Aragorn.

"Captain _Thorongil_?" whispered Boromir. He looked like a boy who had just met his favourite action hero. Or something like that. Thorongil did have quite a reputation in Middle Earth, and not the type that would get him into the local tabloids. Now _that_ would be someone to interview for a profile. Leila briefly considered the benefits of attempting to start her own newspaper —_The_ _Middle Earth Herald_?— but then shook her head. Lack of sleep and lack of caffeine had messed with her mind. Where were her priorities? She had to be alive to 'invent' the printing press first before she could have her own newspaper. Gutenberg would just have to forgive her.

Théoden unsheathed his sword and raised it high. "Let the Horn of Helm Hammerhand strike fear into the hearts of our enemies once more!"

Cheers rose. The warriors mounted their horses. Leila handed Daffodil's reins to one of the other women who had decided to fight, knowing full well the horse would be much more useful under the command of another. The young journalist was a warrior of words. When it came to actual weapons made of metal, she was less than useless.

"Come on, lass," said Gimli quietly. "You and I both know we won't be any use in a charge."

Leila had some idea of what he wanted to do. With one last look at the warriors, who were preparing for what could be their final charge, she followed him up the winding stone steps in the half light of dawn, her woollen skirts bunched in her hands. Her thighs cramped and the arches of her feet ached. She struggled to keep up with him. Gimli might have been short, but his stamina was much greater than hers, not that she should be surprised by that. He'd spent his life marching everywhere. _She_ had been chauffeured everywhere in cars until she'd been old enough to drive. The key lay in the car.

The wind was cold and biting, but despite the temperature outside, she was sweating. Her body was not used to such exertion.

The sky was lighting up in the east as they came up to the highest part of the fortress. From here, they could see everything. The orcs looked ant-sized. Clouds masked most of it, but there was a small slice of clear sky that glowed orange. On the horizon was a dark line of men coming over the hill with the sun behind them. Their spears shimmered like the crest of a metal wave.

"Gimli, look!" she said breathlessly as she pointed at the men. "He's here! Gandalf's here!"

"I knew he would be," said the dwarf with a grin. He approached the mouthpiece of the great horn that extended all the way from the top of the fortress to the bottom. He took in a great breath. Leila stepped back.

The ground shook as the sound waves travelled through the ground. It felt like a minor earthquake —a 3.7?— as the ground rolled and came alive beneath them. Leila braved her fear of heights and peered over the battlements. She couldn't see the banners, but she knew they were flying as a troupe of warriors charged down the causeway, dislodging orcs as they went. The strength of the horses pushed them out of the way, and the ones that did not fall beneath iron hooves were cut down by steel blades.

In the east, the riders led by Gandalf also charged.

"How was it?" asked the dwarf.

"Brilliant," said Leila, almost shouting to be heard above the wind. Also, her ears were still ringing from the horn. "But you do realize Legolas has a chance to get ahead with his kills now?"

"As if a pointy-eared elvish princeling can beat me," said the dwarf with the snort. "I _do_ win, do I not?"

Leila did not reply. Gimli would understand. He knew she wasn't supposed to say anything about what she knew. Even though the game might seem trivial now, who knew if revealing the result —which could be wrong— would change anything? It was better not to risk it.

The orcs were caught between two charges. They did not seem to know where to look. They retreated from the rising sun and the charging Rohirrim from the east. Saruman's armies were being herded back. There was only one direction they could go. They fled from the fortress. When their numbers had overwhelmed the Rohirrim by impossible odds, it had seemed that they were fearless. But now that the other side had a chance of winning, their courage fled.

They ran towards a forest that Leila was quite certain had not been there the day before. Sure, sometimes she never noticed the world around her, particularly when she was busy daydreaming —particularly about moving to New York or Sydney— but she was quite sure she would not miss an entire forest.

Especially not one that moved.

The huorns were here. In the excitement and exhaustion of the last few days, she'd forgotten about them. Knowing was one thing. Actually seeing was another thing entirely. Well, actually, she couldn't see too clearly, and she took it to be a good thing.

From a distance, all she could see was the canopy rippling, but even so, she could still hear the inhuman screams of the orcs and the rumbling groans of the trees. She didn't like orcs, but the idea of them being ripped apart by woody limbs made her feel ill.

"What's going on there?" demanded Gimli. He was just tall enough to look over the battlements, but like her, his vision was not good enough to see the details.

"The trees have awakened, and they're angry about the destruction of their kindred," said Leila.

"If you get any more cryptic, you will be competition for the elf, lass."

"I'm not being cryptic. The trees are awake and they are angry, which is why they're killing all the orcs."

"The _trees_ are killing the orcs? It doesn't make sense!"

"Hardly anything is making sense right now," said Leila. "Just go with it. It's easier."

"Killer trees," grumbled Gimli as he eyed the forest darkly. "Yet another reason to never go near them."

—

Pale sunlight illuminated destruction and death. Leila picked her way between the bodies. If they were men, she tried to find something to cover them. This was her first war zone. She felt like losing her dinner and crying at the same time. She was not ready for it. In theory, she understood this was the reality of war. She'd watched enough war films and reports on distant battles and ranted about Iraq online, but the reality was entirely different. There was nothing glorious about it. Heroic and tragic, perhaps, but nothing glorious.

Then again, she was alive. That was something to be happy about. She shook herself out of her funk. She could get counselling later. Perhaps. Did they have counselling in Middle Earth? Right now, she had a job to do. The story needed to be written. The dead had to be accounted for. Some of them had been so mutilated it would be impossible to identify them.

"Lass, you look ill," Gimli commented as he glanced back at her.

"I've never seen a dead person like this before," whispered Leila. If she spoke any louder, she was afraid she might just burst into tears from the trauma of it all. She swallowed rapidly.

"It's always hard the first time, but you…learn to live it," said the dwarf. He squeezed her arm and practically dragged her away. "Come along, now. I need to tally my score and see that pretty elven princeling admit defeat. Do you not want to see his face when he realizes he's lost?"

"You're very confident, Master Gimli. What makes you so sure you won?" she asked.

"I thought you had the greatest respect for my axe."

"I do, but Legolas' arrows are pretty good too, and he did get a head start."

"Well, if he wins, it is only because of the head start. And if he loses…that makes it even better."

"I am not going to lose, my friend," said Legolas as he appeared out of nowhere with Aragorn and Boromir behind him.

"Somebody has to lose," said Gimli.

"And it is not me," said Legolas. The elf and dwarf fell into comfortable mischievous banter. It was as if this was just another day. But for them, perhaps it was. She was the only one for whom this was new and horrifying. Death was part of Middle Earth's every day vocabulary. They didn't have the luxury of living in a boring country no one wanted to invade because no one remembered it existed.

"What were you thinking?" said Boromir's voice from somewhere above her. She was so out of it she hadn't even noticed he'd fallen into step with her, which must be quite an effort because her legs weren't particularly long —rather too short for her liking, actually— and he was very tall. He did not sound pleased.

"I didn't want to die cowering in a corner," she said. "I thought we were all going to die." She had also been harbouring fantasies that she could be Joan of Arc or Xena the Warrior Princess, at least in the immature corner of her mind, but she wasn't going to tell him that. He was just going to be even more frustrated than he was now.

"I wasn't going to let that happen," he said through gritted teeth. "You had me worried."

"Well, I'm alive," she said. And then she burst into tears. Strong arms awkwardly pulled her into an embrace.

"Please, do not cry," he begged her. He could deal with bloodthirsty orcs, but when it came to weeping women, he was at a complete loss.

"I feel sick. All these people are dead. Dead! I saw their eyes, and their blood, and…and…I remember seeing some of them alive…they were real people…Boromir. They weren't just people in movies or on TV. They were _real_. They were fathers and sons and cousins and brothers and…"

"I know," he murmured. "I know. It never gets easier, but you learn to manage your emotions."

"I'm not cut out for this," she said. "Whenever I think back to it…I think about all the things that _could _have happened. I could have been one of those dead people. _You_ could have been one of them."

"But we are still here," said Boromir. "Those people believed in what they died for. Everyone dies at some point. It's a matter of whether your death has meaning or not."

He wiped her tears away from her face with an even dirtier hand, leaving streaks of grime on her face. Not that it made matters any worse. They were both filthy, and they knew it. "If you promise you will not vomit the way I did after my first battle, then you can come with us to Isengard," he said.

"You're taking me to Isengard?" she asked as her sobs faded away into hiccups.

"You write the first draft of history, do you not?" he asked. "How are you going to write it if you are not there?"

"I'll go get my notebook."

—

Her back ached, but that was becoming the norm in her life rather than the occasional occurrence. The promise of a hot bath back in Edoras seemed more and more tempting with each mile she rode, but she stubbornly did not say anything. She had gotten herself into this, and besides, she was a journalist, not a pampered little lady. Well, she _was_ a pampered little lady compared to the rest of them, and that included the real ladies who were back in the capital preparing for the victory feast. But that was beside the point. She had to prove she was good for something, and since party planning was not it —in her opinion, party food consisted of pizza and ice cream— she was just going to have to give them the best story ever.

The fact she had work to do gave her something to focus on and prevented her from overanalyzing the battle. She could still hear the screaming and smell the blood. Her outlook was never going to be the same again.

"Will this forest never end?" grumbled Gimli.

"This forest saved us," said Legolas.

"We had it in the bag," said the dwarf. "We didn't need trees to help us."

"Still, do you not find it incredible that after all these years, the trees have finally woken?" asked the elf.

"Trees should stay rooted in the ground and be used for firewood," muttered the dwarf.

The trees groaned in response, causing the entire company to tense.

"My apologies," said Gimli.

Leila flashed him a tired grin, knowing fully well he was most definitely going to be quoted in her story. She would make a note if she weren't so afraid of falling out of the saddle. Unfortunately, she had discovered she still had a lot to learn about riding and horses. Even though Daffodil was a placid beast, she still couldn't control him very well, for he had a mind of his own and very little regard for her except for when she had carrots to give him. Dangling a carrot in front of a horse's nose was not a respectable method of steering it, apparently. She didn't see why. The ends justified the means, and it wasn't as if there was something inherently immoral about dangling a carrot in front of a lazy horse's nose.

The movie was yet again misleading, as it took over twenty four hours to reach Isengard from Helm's Deep, rather than the breezy three minutes of screen time. As they neared Saruman's headquarters, the trees began to grow sparser. Stumps littered the forest floor; testimony to the orcs' work and the effects of industrialization. The ents would really hate her world. They'd hate her job too, because they'd probably think the production of newspapers equated to murder.

But newspapers were a necessary evil in a world without the internet. How else were people supposed to keep up with current events? 'You're gonna have to invent the printing press first,' she thought to herself. She hoped Gutenberg would forgive her for stealing his idea. It wasn't as if he was ever going to be born in Middle Earth. At least, she thought not.

The ground became muddy. Gandalf led them through an archway in a round stone wall. "Be careful here," he said. "Some of the holes are deeper than they seem." Oh, brilliant. She'd forgotten about this part. No, not the drowning of Isengard; she couldn't forget _that_, but she'd completely forgotten about the pits, which were now filled with water and lying in wait for unsuspecting journalists who couldn't swim. She had to admit, they were a very good media deterrent. Perhaps some of those Hollywood stars complaining about a lack of privacy should invest in some of these.

She followed closely behind Gandalf, making sure only to ride on ground where he had passed. Even Daffodil seemed to be more alert than usual. That wasn't saying much, because that horse usually only had one thing on his mind, but considering it was Daffodil, it was a significant change. Mist shrouded the ground and swirled about the horse's legs.

There was a low rumble. Strange shapes, humanoid and tree-ish at once, appeared through the fog. Some of them were taller than two storey houses. It almost felt like watching dinosaurs being resurrected; these ents were living fossils in their own way, even if they weren't millions of years old. She marvelled at the way their skin —bark?— looked so hard, and yet it could bend like her skin. Their eyes were the colour of amber. Their whispers sounded like the rustling of leaves on a windy day.

"Greetings, Treebeard, old friend," said Gandalf.

"Young Master Gandalf," rumbled one of the ents. Obviously, that was Treebeard. "I presume you have come for your young companions?"

"Indeed, but I have come for more than that," said Gandalf. "Where is Saruman?"

"Locked in his tower," said the ent. There was a tone of dissatisfaction in his voice. "We have attacked it with stones and all the strength we had, but the tower is too strong. I would have liked to make him pay for everything he has done."

"No one can breach Orthanc if the doors are locked," said Gandalf, "but Saruman can do little damage now."

"He has done more than enough," Boromir murmured. He tightened his grip on his reins and his knuckles turned white.

Leila tried to commit everything to memory. People in Middle Earth liked colour in their stories, and they didn't mind spending some time on them either, unlike people in her world, who would probably read the first two sentences of every news story. The rest of the story was for those with too much time, and also for her boss. There would be no need to use the inverted pyramid style in Middle Earth. That in itself made her very eager to get started on the coverage.

Visibility improved quite suddenly when they reached the second stone wall, which was much shorter than the first one, and therefore much less damaged. Two hobbits sat on the top of the wall. From such a distance, she couldn't make out their features clearly. One of them got up and waved frantically. "Hail, travellers from afar!" called a high voice —not that high; she'd say an alto rather than a tenor. "Welcome to Isengard!"

"Merry Brandybuck!" shouted Gimli. "A merry chase you led us on, and we find you here, of all places, feasting!"

"The fault is not entirely mine, and my name _is_ Merry after all," said the hobbit. Now Leila could see he was a hobbit, for he was a little too short —all right, quite a bit too short— to be a man and a little too stout to be a child. The curls on his head bounced as he moved. "Besides, I say we earned this feast. Right, Pip?"

"Indeed," said the other hobbit, Pippin. "After all this hard work, we deserve some luxury. You have me to thank, you know, for all of this." He indicated the soggy ruins about them. "Of course, the others helped, but the plan was mine, so ultimately, I'm responsible."

The dwarf gaped at the two of them. "Unbelievable," he muttered. "Lass, you may well have met your match when it comes to being exasperating."

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Master Gimli," said Leila. "I am perfectly charming."

"Dear Valar," said Gandalf, half in amusement and half in irritation. "I do not think I like this mixture very much." He shook his head. "Get down from there, you two, before you fall and drown."

"Tooks do not fall off walls, Gandalf," said Pippin. "You should know better than that. I cannot, however, say the same of Brandybucks."

—

**A/N: **Leila finally meets some hobbits! I just learned that the word 'gotten' is banned in our company. I have no doubt the word 'screwed' would be banned as well. Unless it's in a quote, in which case it adds character to an otherwise dry news story.


	8. Shorthand

**The Scoop on the Rings**

**A/N: **Long absence. No excuses. I do not own anyone you recognize. Leila belongs to me. By the way, did people go and see _The Hobbit_? What did you think?

**Chapter 8: Shorthand **

Anyone walking by Isengard that day would have seen a strange sight. Not that many people walked past Isengard on any given day. In fact, it was possible Isengard had not seen so many people since it had been built. Orcs, of course, did not count as people in Leila's book. And despite the fact most of them had spent days in the saddle, the sound of laughter could be heard as the hobbits continued to squabble about which family was more likely to fall off walls as they clambered down from the wall they had been sitting on.

"I tell you, Merry, we Tooks are natural climbers. You, on the other hand, might know what to do with a boat, but when it comes to climbing—"

"Yet I climbed trees and walls and everything in between," replied Merry. "When have I fallen?"

"You'll fall sooner or later," said Pippin. "What do you think, Gandalf?"

"I am not getting involved," said the wizard. "Legolas and Gimli's dispute over their final counts are bad enough."

"I still maintain I won," said the elf. "Masters Took and Brandybuck, you will have to judge for us."

"Gladly, if you tell us what it's all about," said Merry.

"It's obvious that I won," said Gimli. "The pointy-eared princeling just won't admit it."

"Princeling?" asked Pippin. "Isn't Legolas very much older than you, Gimli? I thought he was the second oldest in the company."

"Age means nothing if he insists on being a child and a bad loser," said Gimli. "And…have you grown taller, the two of you?"

"It's the ent draught," said Merry. "Pip didn't want to share, but I found out about it."

"Perhaps you should share it with Gimli," said Legolas. "He could not see over the wall of Helm's Deep, and it has made him grumpy, which is why he insists that he has won, when he has not."

"You…!"

Leila couldn't help but giggle at the outrage on the dwarf's face. Gimli looked around for back-up, but found none. So he just scowled and muttered something in dwarvish beneath his breath.

"I think you gentlemen are forgetting your manners," said Pippin. "The last time I saw you, there had not been a lady in the company. Perhaps introductions are in order?"

"Forgive us," said Boromir. "We were so excited to see you that we forgot you did not know each other. Mistress Leila is a travelling storyteller."

"I hope you do not object to a female presence, Master Took," said Leila.

"Not at all. There's only so much nine boys can talk about. Well, not boys, but we're not all men…Merry, you explain."

"I won't even try," said Merry. "I'm sure Mistress Leila knows what you mean, even if you don't know what you're talking about."

"It's just Leila. Mistress makes me feel ancient, and I'm the youngest," said Leila.

"Well, then, Leila, I'm sure you know what my cousin was talking about. Females understand the finer things in life," said Merry.

"Don't be so sure about this," said Gandalf. "Leila is unlike any other female you have ever known. She is a historian and she is more interested in discussing wars than recipes. I wouldn't trust her recipes, anyhow."

"Hey! My lemon cake garners a lot of praise!" protested Leila.

"Lemon cake?" said Pippin, looking very interested.

"You need lemons for that," Merry informed him. "There are no lemons to be found this time of year. How did a lady historian end up in the company anyway?"

"That is also a long story, but to simplify it, she saved my life," said Boromir.

"Daffodil saved your life. I just happened to be clinging to his back," Leila reminded him as she gave her oblivious horse a pat on the neck. Daffodil did not acknowledge the praise.

"You could say we saved her life too," said Gimli. "It is…complicated, and we will need time to explain everything to you."

Both hobbits looked from her to Boromir, and then to Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. They were eager to catch up with the latest Fellowship gossip.

"How did you come to be at Isengard, at any rate?" Aragorn asked of them, changing the subject back to what it ought to be.

"It's a long story," said Merry, "with multiple points of contention. It is best told over a meal, which I am sure you don't have time for right now because there is a wizard locked in the tower behind me and I think that's what you're here for, right, Gandalf?"

"Indeed," said the wizard.

The two hobbits were put onto Aragorn and Boromir's horses respectively. They looked tiny compared to the huge beasts, but they were not daunted at all. Leila supposed that if she had been recently riding ents and fighting Uruk Hai —and winning— she'd be feeling a lot bolder too. She had to remind herself that they were both much older than her, even though they didn't look it.

"You don't mind me stealing him, do you?" Pippin asked her with a wink as he settled in front of Boromir.

"Oh…um…" she said, completely flustered by what he was insinuating. Not that it was rude or anything. It was just…

Well, she'd never really consciously thought about it. Perhaps, subconsciously, she might have, considering the dreams…but no way. She couldn't. He wouldn't be interested in her anyway. Boys were never interested in girls like her. Pervy old men, yes, but for boys, she was just someone to compete against in academic subjects.

"You can borrow him for the meantime," she said, regaining her composure.

"That's very generous of you," said Boromir dryly.

"I am, aren't I?" said Leila. "I'm always too nice for my own good, and I don't need to drool on your tunic for the moment."

"That just reminds me you still owe me a clean tunic," said Boromir.

"It's not polite to share a private joke when the third person in the conversation has no idea what you're talking about," said Pippin. "What's this about?"

"She promised to wash my tunic after she drooled on it when she fell asleep," Boromir informed him.

"Girls drool in their sleep?" asked Pippin.

"Well, why not?" said Leila.

"I never knew girls could drool," said Pippin.

Leila snorted. "Trust me, we're not magical mystical perfect creatures that need to be put on pedestals in glass cases. We just hide our flaws better."

"Not you," Boromir pointed out. "I think I've seen everything there is to see." Then he realized the possible implications of what he had just said, and cleared his throat. "I didn't mean…that."

Leila's face was burning. The very thought was…daunting, and strangely exciting, which just made it even more daunting. And completely inappropriate. People were _dead_. She couldn't be thinking about _that_ right now. She had a story to report.

"Let's just pretend that did not happen," said Pippin. "And look, you don't have time to be embarrassed. We're here."

On the big screen, Orthanc had always looked like a tall thin spire, but up close, it was a colossal structure rivalling the tallest of skyscrapers and even the Great Wall of China. Its base was octagonal, but it tapered off into a conical shape that stretched up into the clouds. She tilted her head right back until she got a crick in her neck, but even so, she couldn't see the top of the tower. The entire thing was built out of smooth black rock that gleamed in the pale morning sun. Despite the ents having attacked it with rocks, there wasn't even a single chip or scratch. Leila wanted whatever it was Saruman polished his tower with. Her car could most definitely use some of that.

Suddenly remembering why she was here, she dug around in her saddlebag until she found her notepad and pen, just in time to hear a clear authoritative voice ring out, seemingly from the heavens, to echo around them and penetrate their very bones.

If this had been the Old Testament and not the _Lord of the Rings_, people would have mistaken the voice for God.

—

"It was so strange," said Boromir as he helped the hobbits gather supplies for their lunch. "But when I heard Saruman's voice, I felt…he was right, even though I knew in my heart he was not."

"That is the nature of Saruman," said Aragorn. "He has a tongue of silver, and his lies are nectar to the ears."

"I assume that's what being high is like," said Leila. "Even the most unreasonable things seem reasonable."

"Then Legolas must be constantly 'high'," said Gimli. "It is obvious I won. Numbers do not lie!"

"You would be surprised at how inaccurate figures can be," replied the elf.

"I have to second that," said Leila. "Especially in war. I mean, did either of you actually keep a proper count?"

"I am an elf. Elves do not make counting mistakes."

"And I am a miserly dwarf who counts every grain of gold dust in his pockets; at least, that is what many would believe," said Gimli. "I should think _I_ would not make a counting mistake. Leila, since you have the greatest respect for my axe and the deepest esteem for Legolas' arrows, what do you think?"

"I think this is your problem, and my job as a journalist is to stay neutral and report on the bloody aftermath," said Leila.

"I should think you job right now is to watch the toast so it does not burn," said Aragorn.

"And bake a lemon cake if we should ever come across any lemons," added Pippin. "Come now, my good dwarf and elf, this is a happy day today! You should not be arguing. Not everything has to have a winner."

"Everything does need a winner," said Gimli, while Legolas just smiled with a look in his eye which said this was not over, and he was going to emerge victorious even if it took a drinking game to convince Gimli there was no way he could have beaten the perfect elven archer slash Apollo incarnate. And the truth was, Leila suspected Legolas was right, as he always was. People had been saying how he'd shot a rope which had been used to haul a ladder up to the battlements, and at least a quarter of the orcs clinging to that ladder would have been crushed. Plus, he had a headstart, and long distance weapons always claimed more lives.

Of course, she was not going to tell Gimli _that_. His axe was still very sharp. Rather, she put a slice of toast on his plate. It wasn't a sign of agreement, nor was it a sign of disagreement. However, he took that to mean an answer of some sort and smirked at Legolas.

"I wish we had some butter," said Pippin. "Toasted bread and butter seem like very simple fare, but it is delicious."

"I like buttered toast sprinkled with sugar," said Leila. "The sugar crunches and it tastes like caramel."

"That sounds good," said Merry. "Now I really want a little something sweet. Did Saruman's stores have any sugar?"

"Not that I have found," came the deep voice of Gandalf from the doorway, "but many of his store rooms remain unexplored. You might just be lucky, Meriadoc."

"Gandalf! Come join us!" cried Merry…er…merrily. While sugar might have been missing from their hastily put together meal, alcohol certainly was not. They had found barrels of ale in Saruman's stores and the hobbit might have imbibed just a bit too much.

"I would love to," said the wizard, "but there is serious business at hand, and I need to borrow Leila."

"Me?" squeaked Leila.

"I do not know anyone else by that name in the present company," said Gandalf. "Do you?"

"What do you need me for?" she asked.

"You will find out," said the wizard.

—

Keeping up with Gandalf was hard. His strides were long, and he had the stamina of a young man. Leila found herself almost jogging to keep up. "What's with all the secrecy," she panted. "I'm usually the last one to find out about classified information."

"I beg to differ, young lady, seeing as your head is filled with classified information that even I must not know," said Gandalf without slowing down even one bit.

"Can't you just give me a hint as to what this is about?" she asked.

"Be patient. You will find out soon enough."

"Not if I collapse of exhaustion halfway there."

"You need to exercise more."

Leila wanted to tell him she'd done more exercise in the last week than she had ever done in her life, but then she almost fell into one of those deep water-filled pits, and probably would have if the wizard hadn't caught hold of her.

"You don't want to go down there, trust me," said the wizard.

"I hate large bodies of water," she said.

"I thought you lived near the coast."

"Near enough to eat seafood, but not close enough to actually be in any danger if there was a tidal wave."

Gandalf suddenly stopped in front of a round stone store room that seemed isolated from the rest of the…erm…complex. There were two guards posted at the closed door. They bowed when they saw Gandalf and stepped aside to let him though.

Inside were stacks upon stacks of wooden crates. Some of them had been pried open. Leila's jaws dropped as she caught sight of a familiar red label. "Why does Saruman have Watties Baked Beans?" she whispered.

"Ah, so you do recognize these things," said Gandalf, poking the tins with his staff suspiciously. It would have been comical if it weren't so serious. The White Wizard was scared of tinned beans. "What about these?" He pointed at another crate. There was a briefcase inside. Leila wasn't sure she wanted to open it. What if it was a bomb, or something nasty, like spiders?

Then again, if Saruman wanted to use spiders as secret weapons, his spiders wouldn't be small enough to fit in a briefcase. It wasn't locked. Leila undid the latches. The briefcase, by the way, was very nice, and she could most definitely use some new luggage right now. When she saw what was inside, however, all the blood drained from her face and she felt physically ill.

"That…that…" she squeaked.

"Steady," murmured Gandalf as he caught her arm to stop her from tripping over her own feet. "What is it?"

"That's a gun!"

The wizard's brows drew together. "One of those very dangerous weapons from your world, Leila?"

"I think it's a nine-mil, or maybe it's a glock, or maybe a glock is the same thing as a nine-mil, or maybe…I know nothing about guns…" said Leila. "I need oxygen."

"Don't faint," said Gandalf. "It is too ladylike for you."

"That's not fair! I am a lady!" Her urge to faint faded. She had taught herself to walk properly in heels, for God's sake! As far as she was concerned, that made half a lady at least.

"I highly doubt that," said the wizard.

"How did those things get here?" demanded Leila. "And if Saruman has them, then…then…Wait. First terminator pigs, then canned baked beans and revolvers? Why are there things from _my_ world in Middle Earth?"

"Open the other boxes first," said Gandalf. "And then you may hyperventilate. I have a theory, but I need more evidence to prove or disprove it."

Saruman had batteries, and muskets, and antique pocket watches, and paprika, and bolts of embroidered silk that looked very Chinese, Samurai swords, jade bracelets, Babylonian tablets, muskets, and Renaissance clopines which were nigh unwearable. Seriously, she liked high heels, but twenty inch heels were going straight into stilt territory. The silk, however, she really liked.

"Okay, can you explain why you think Saruman needs this?" she asked as she held up a white powdered wig. "I didn't really see him too well, but from what I saw, he had enough white hair of his own."

"It is all very random, is it not?"

"It's beyond random, although some of those antiques could make someone very rich," said Leila. "And who on earth wants a car key without a car?" Too bad, really. She could use a car, and the key belonged to a Porsche.

"Oh, I bet you would like the car, wouldn't you?" said the wizard with much amusement. "Fortunately for Middle Earth, we will never have to see your driving manoeuvres."

"Do you even know what a car is?" said Leila.

"All I need to know is it is faster and more powerful than a horse, it has no sense of danger, and you drive one. The very thought of you being in control of something so powerful makes me shiver in a bad way."

"I am a very good driver, thank you very much. I just have moments." She was offended that someone who had _never_ been her passenger before was complaining about her driving, and a medieval type person at that! Gandalf should try his hand at the wheel, and _then_ he'd understand what bad driving was.

"It is my belief Saruman was trying to steal some of your weapons; one of those things that can destroy an entire city," said Gandalf suddenly. Leila dropped the packet of chocolate she was examining.

"What?" she asked.

To his credit, the wizard ignored her insightful outburst. "I knew a bit about your world. Saruman knew more than I did. I believe he was trying to bring your weapons to Middle Earth, but it is a very exact science, breaching the boundaries of existential planes. He never managed to perfect that science so, instead of weapons of mass destruction, we have these." He picked up the bag of chocolate and pocketed it himself. "And, of course, your favourite animal, the terminator pig.

"He unbalanced the world by bringing these things here. These preserved beans could change the outcome of a war, and if he had had time, Saruman would have been able to reproduce the gun. I suppose you do not need me to elaborate on the effect the existence of the terminator pig will have on Middle Earth. And then, of course, there's you."

"Me?" said Leila. "Did he bring me here too?"

"Perhaps, although I doubt it. All these things ended up in Isengard. You ended up in Amon Hen. Perhaps it was just an accident, but I believe the Valar meant to bring someone from your world here to reset the balance, and you happened to be the one in the right place at the wrong time.

"Look, I'm a journalist. I know a little bit about everything and very little about anything," said Leila. "How can _I_ reset the balance?"

"Like I have mentioned before, there are many questions in the world and not all of them have answers. I would have preferred to have that other fellow…what was his name? Ah, yes. Leonardo Da Vinci. I have heard he was quite intelligent."

"But he didn't know about terminator pigs. They weren't discovered in his time."

"See? You do have some qualities which others do not have, if only because you stand on the shoulders of many giants."

"Okay, let's assume I'm here because I have some special qualities that I don't know about. What am I supposed to do? I know about terminator pigs. It doesn't mean I can kill one."

Gandalf smiled. "At least we will have something to work with," he said.

—

They stared at her like she'd grown horns. "_Leila_ is here to help us balance out the fact the enemy now has access to ferocious predators and advanced weaponry the likes of which Middle Earth has never seen before?" said Legolas. The elven prince was so flustered that for a moment, he let his perfect composure slip a little. "We are —how would they put it in your world, Leila?— screwed."

"Maybe we are not quite as screwed as you think, elf," said Gimli slowly, "but I can hardly see how Leila can balance things out."

"Oh, thanks for your vote of confidence," said Leila.

"Just pointing out the truth, lass," said the dwarf. "You _know_ about all these things but you do not know how they work."

Leila sighed. "I know, right?" she said. "You'd think someone like Einstein would be the balancing factor. Not me."

"I do not know this Einstein," said Boromir, "but at least you know_ something_, Leila. You knew about those beans in cans, and you knew about the terminator pigs and their behaviour. With that, we can learn how to kill them. Besides, you saved me, did you not? You are not entirely useless."

"Daffodil did the saving," she reminded him for the umpteenth time even though she was grateful he was trying to make her feel better. "I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Or the right place at the wrong time. Or the wrong place at the right time. But I don't know what else I could do."

"Boromir's right," said Pippin. "Nobody's entirely useless. Lord Elrond thought we couldn't help, and he didn't want to let us come, but look what we've done. Even the smallest person can change the course of the future. And why are you all so gloomy? We just won a battle! It's time to celebrate, and I heard there's going to be a feast at Edoras."

"I guess that ale we found in Saruman's store rooms will come in handy," said Merry. "And Leila, Gandalf said you found something called 'cho-ca-lit'. Would you care to share?"

—

Trestle tables were lined up and stools were brought in. In the three days they'd been gone, Éowyn had transformed Edoras' great hall into a giant dining room which could fit at least three hundred. Not that Leila's guestimates had ever been accurate.

"I hope you have an interesting excuse for not being here to help me," said Éowyn as soon as she caught sight of the other woman. "You are my lady in waiting, if you remember, and you should have informed me of any impending absences."

"I was at Isengard…" said Leila, glancing sideways to see if anyone could save her. Nobody could. The men had all escaped off to do masculine things, leaving her at Éowyn's mercy. "I took notes. I can tell you about everything that transpired. You know I'm no good at organising things." She could organise interviews, and stories, and scholarship applications, but when it came to dinners and banquets, she'd never touched one in her entire life. Back in her world, she'd never had a single victory feast.

"Neither am I, but we all learn," said Éowyn. "However, if you tell me absolutely everything that happened, I will forgive you and even help you to get ready for tonight."

"Tonight…"

"The _feast_ tonight. You cannot attend looking like something the dog dragged in from the stables." Éowyn looked her up and down with a bemused smile.

"I'm invited?" said Leila.

"Leila, you couldn't escape it if you _wanted _to. And you know you need to look good."

—

She was all woman. She might have been small, but there was no mistaking Leila for a girl child as she walked into the room with a sway in her gait. She was wearing yet another borrowed dress that was perhaps a little too loose about the shoulders, but hardly anyone would notice it. Her lips had been painted a shocking red, emphasising how full and moist they were. The truth was, Leila would never be called a beauty, and yet there was something about her. Perhaps it was her complexities. She was so innocent, yet naiveté was not in her nature. She was rational, practical, and devoid of the subtle wiles of the ladies at court. Plus, she was most definitely not ugly, even if she was not beautiful. And the way she was walking drew attention to her rounded hips and soft curves. Yes, she might be the size of a girl, but she was _all_ woman.

"Boromir, you're staring," she said.

"You just look very different, that is all," he said. Taller, shapelier, more feminine, and somehow more confident and quite alluring.

She beamed at him coyly and then lifted her skirts to show one tiny ankle…

And a shoe that looked more like a lethal weapon than a shoe. The heel was very high and very pointy, and they made her put all her weight onto the front of her foot. How she could even walk in them was beyond him. It looked more like a torture implement.

"High heels are miracle workers," she said. That would explain the sway. She was trying to balance in her shoes. She let her skirt drop again. "I'd better go and find my place. I don't belong at the noblemen's table." She turned around. Her heels struck up a rhythm on the flagstones.

"You are still staring, Boromir." He had been so engrossed in watching the girl he had not noticed Legolas coming up behind him. Then again, Legolas was an elf, and only another elf —or Aragorn— could notice an elf sneaking up. Elves were incredibly quiet.

"I am not staring, Legolas," said the Gondorian. "Merely surprised. She seems…different."

"Women all act differently when they dress up," said Legolas. "Although, knowing Leila, _this_ will never last. You will have your snoring, drooling storyteller back after a few drinks."

—

To be quite honest, Leila hated crowds. They were usually loud to the point where she couldn't hear herself think. Crowds made her want to blend into the background, even though another part of her wished she knew how to work them the way some people could.

The first part of the feast was easy to deal with. She knew how to sit through speeches, or stand through them. That was part of the job description. Théoden's speech was much better than the New Zealand prime minister's, and the king hadn't dragged it on. The ale was so bitter it almost made her gag, but she forced herself to keep it down. It wouldn't be polite to gag during a toast to the dead, and the last thing she wanted to do was stick out. There was a reason she avoided alcohol whenever she could.

When the celebrations truly began in earnest, she had every intention of grabbing some food and then spending the night watching Merry and Pippin's antics in a shadowy corner somewhere. However, it seemed her days of being invisible were over. Being the only Asian to have ever visited Middle Earth made her exotic, and the Middle Earthans —Middle Earthlings?— had yet to learn the prejudices that existed in New Zealand.

"Well, if it isn't the storyteller," said Raedwulf. "I had wondered about where you had gone after the battle. You shan't disappear this time, at least not until you have had a drink with me."

"I feel like a rabbit being stalked by a wolf," she said.

"I am named for the wolf," he said, "although I hardly think you are a rabbit. Perhaps the elusive fox who always stays out of reach? Come, I have caught you now, and I am not letting you go so easily."

"As long as you don't make me drink. I don't like alcohol. It tastes too bitter."

"Then you cannot have been drinking the right type." He pressed a pewter mug of golden liquid into her hand. She sniffed it. It didn't have the sharp pungent scent of most alcoholic drinks. The alcohol was in the background, but it wasn't overwhelming.

"What is this?" she asked.

"This is mead," said Raedwulf. "Go on. Try it."

She took a small sip. The bitter aftertaste was there, but the way it warmed her from her throat to her stomach made her take another sip. _Much _better than ale.

"Do you like it?" he asked her.

"Yeah," she said. "I do."

"Excellent! Maybe it will stop you from being so nervous. You looked like you were identifying all the escape routes."

"I wasn't nervous, and I wasn't identifying escape routes!" The alcohol was giving her a nice buzz. She took another sip, and another, and before she knew it, the mead was gone, and she had more courage than she had ever had in her life. Forget propriety. This was a party, and she was doing things she'd never done before, so she might as well enjoy life while she could!

Who knew when it was all going to end in smoke and ashes?

"Will you honour us with a tale?" Raedwulf asked when she'd finished the mead. "I, well, _we_ are curious about what went on at Isengard, and you are the only one we could think of to ask."

The men murmured their agreement. Dozens of pairs of eyes looked to her expectantly. It wasn't often that a journalist had such a ready audience. Most of the time, she had to fight to get readers' attention for her stories. Of course, the usual type of story she covered was not as exciting as a visiting One of Middle-earth's most powerful wizards while he was under house arrest and covering a battle that could have destroyed an entire kingdom. "I can tell you exactly what happened, actually," she said. "Just let me go and get my notes. I'll be right back."

She wobbled unsteadily to her feet. Her head felt light and floaty. It was kinda fun, as if she was walking on water or on a bouncy castle. She stumbled and would have fallen if Raedwulf had not caught her. She grabbed his tunic to steady herself. His blue eyes twinkled at her as he set her back on her feet. "Perhaps I should accompany you, Mistress Leila," he said.

"_Just_ Leila," she corrected. "'Mistress' either sounds old or kinky."

"Very well then, _Just _Leila," said Raedwulf. "Would you do me the honour of allowing me to accompany you to fetch your notes?" He gave her a low bow. A courtier's bow. It was exaggerated and overly dramatic, but combined with that mischievous grin and those bright blue eyes, it made her heart race. In a good way. People were all so nice to her here!

"Lead the way, Sir Raedwulf," she said as she giggled. When did she turn to silly? And why did she even care? This was the best party she'd ever been to!

The room which she shared with the other ladies in waiting was only a couple of candles short of pitch black darkness. It took her a while to adjust to the dim lighting before she was able to stumble her way to her bed and grab her spiral-bound notebook with its crinkled, dog-eared pages covered with illegible squiggles, otherwise known as shorthand.

By the time she got back, a small crowd was waiting for her, amongst them, Gimli, Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, Gandalf, and half the nobility of Rohan, including Éowyn.

"You're just all trying to make me nervous, aren't you?" she said as she eyed them.

"We are merely curious to see if you really can write as fast as men talk," said Aragorn.

"That must be very fast," murmured Pippin, looking quite impressed.

"They wouldn't have let me pass if I couldn't," said Leila as she opened her notebook.

She flipped to the right page and cleared her throat. "All right, so this is what Saruman said. I have been waiting for you," she began clearly enough. "Do you remember how Rohan and Iceland—_Isengard_ have always been allies, then —no— Théoden King? There's no reason with —_why _this matter ...erm…can…_can't_ be resolved peacefully. The alliance is round—_can be _renewed, sorry— and together we should —shall— hold out against the focus of Mordor and being peace —_bring_ peace to me—Middle Earth…" She trailed off, squinting at the page of squiggles and dashes and circles. Shorthand was hard to read under optimum lighting, and much more so in flickering firelight, especially with alcohol going to her head and making her feel warm and fuzzy and not particularly keen on using her brain.

"Well, I can write eighty words a minute too if I do not have to be able to read it back," said Gimli teasingly.

"I can read it back! It just takes some time," protested Leila. "I can write it back just fine most of the time. Reading is different."

"She did quite well, considering how difficult the situation was," said Boromir, coming to her defence. "We were all tired. It would be unreasonable to expect Leila's hand would be as fast as it usually is after such a long ride to Isengard."

"I suppose we can always look forward to reading her story when she writes it," said Legolas. "And she did get more than half the words. I find that impressive."

"Now you're just being patronizing."

"Let that be a lesson to never boast about something you cannot actually do," said Legolas.

"You're one to talk about humility, Lord 'I won the orc-killing competition'."

"I did. It is not arrogance to state a fact," said Legolas.

"It is _not_ a fact, and we have not yet decided on a winner," said Gimli. "Let us drink, and the last one standing will be the winner."

That suggestion was met with loud cheers, and the men soon forgot about shorthand and Saruman as they went to prepare the set up for a drinking game of the most spectacular sort.

The hobbits struck up a lively tune about their favourite pub in the Shire, and, using one of the trestle tables as a stage, struck up an impromptu performance which gained them a standing ovation and demands for an encore. "Let someone else have a turn!" cried Pippin. "Our throats are parched now. Leila? Why don't you sing us a song!"

Leila almost choked on her second drink. Her? Perform? The last time she'd performed on stage, she'd been twelve, and she'd forgotten all the notes of the piano piece she'd had to memorize. Sure, some part of her still dreamed about being a rockstar, but most of her was sensible enough to know she never would be.

However, egged on by the men and encouraged by too much drink, she somehow found herself standing on the table. Ah well, this was a party, right? If she couldn't let herself go tonight, when _could_ she let herself go?

—


	9. Semantics

**The Scoop on the Rings**

**A/N: **And here's a new chapter for Christmas. What can I say? I have no life and I live through my characters. As always, everything belongs to Tolkien, except Leila, who is mine, and the song she sings is 'Chasing the Dragon' by Epica.

By the way, check out the new cover image. I made it myself! (I have a larger, more readable version for people who are interested in seeing it in full.)

**Chapter 9: Semantics**

The voice that could screech like a Nazgûl was also capable of beautiful wistful song. The notes, so full of feeling, floated across the hall. Leila's melody wasn't pitch-perfect, but what she lacked in perfection, she made up for in passion. Her voice was rich. Not dainty or sweet or small at all, unlike her, not that she was particularly sweet. The sound was rather robust for someone so tiny.

But the _words_ in the song…

Valar, what kind of song _was_ that?

"The poison is slowly seeping through my veins, stealing the only dignity in me!" Leila sang as she swayed on the table top.

Boromir suddenly became very alarmed. He had to get her off that table before she fell and cracked her head open! Never mind the poison; she was doing a fine job of losing her dignity all by herself, and it was not like her at all.

He pushed through the throngs of drunken men. It was not easy. They seemed to be enjoying the song immensely. Perhaps they weren't as worried about Leila as he was. Perhaps they thought it was perfectly fine for her to perform for their entertainment. But Leila was not some common strumpet who sang for coin. She was…better than that. Perhaps in his eyes, he had already elevated her to the status of a lady. Perhaps he wanted her to be a lady because…

Well, because what?

Leila was still crooning when she lost her balance and fell into the crowd. The Rohirrim warrior he had seen with her earlier quickly rushed forward to catch her. "Whoops!" giggled the girl as the contents of her cup went flying onto the crowd below. Nobody seemed to mind as they cheered and called for her to continue her performance. That was _not_ going to happen. At least, not on Boromir's watch. A woman's reputation was so easily tarnished, and Leila did not seem to be aware of the danger she was in.

Gandalf got to the drunken girl, still singing about how nothing would be forever gone, before he could. The wizard took the girl from the Rohirric warrior and then set her on her feet. "That's quite enough of that caterwauling, young lady," he said. She was barely able to stand and had to lean against him for support, looking tiny against his tall frame. With a sigh, Gandalf hauled her back to her feet and kept his fingers wrapped around her arm before dragging her away, still protesting. "You do realise you were singing a song about substance abuse, don't you? _Not _the best choice, considering your level of intoxication."

"I know so many other songs!" crooned Leila in protest. "But I like that one best. Ooh, did you hear the one about the cannibalistic barber? That's real fun! I'm having fun! I wonder why I never enjoyed parties before? I want more mead!"

"No," said Gandalf.

"Is she all right, Gandalf?" asked Boromir. "How much has she had to drink?"

"Too much, I'm afraid," said the wizard. "But apart from a sore head and a lot of embarrassment tomorrow morning, she should be fine."

"I can take her from here," said Boromir.

The wizard raised an eyebrow, but he passed the girl over without saying anything. Thankfully, most of the men were too drunk to notice anything as the Gondorian pushed his way past them, or else they would have seen one intoxicated eastern storyteller snuggling up against him and talking about his body temperature and suggesting he should shave once in a while. Considering she was actually talking about the fur-lined collar of his outer tunic, her suggestions didn't really warrant a response.

"Oof, it's cold out here," she protested when he finally got her out into the fresh air. "But you're nice and warm and hot."

"I do not feel that hot, Leila," he said, partly exasperated and partly amused.

"Not that kinda hot, Boz," she said as she turned her glazed eyes up to his face.

"Excuse me?" Boz? No one had ever called him _that_ before. He wasn't sure how he felt about it.

"Have you looked in a reflective surface lately, like a mirror or somethin' like that? Hey, your sword would make a pretty nice mirror."

"I have never seen it that way," said the Gondorian.

"Huh. I guess you're not that kind of guy. But just take my word on it. I'm a healthy heterosexual woman with hormones and you, my friend, are on the Hugh Jackman stratosphere of hotness."

"I do believe my definition of the word 'hot' does not match yours," said Boromir. He resolved to ask her about the meaning of the word later, because he had not understood half of what she had said, and he had a feeling those words he had not understood were vital to the meaning of the sentence.

He made her sit down on the steps of Meduseld, and he sat beside her, letting her lean against him. She was still mumbling, although her syllables blurred into one another now and he could not make out a single word. Slowly, she quietened.

"You know, Leila," he began, "you should not have gotten up there onto that table. I do not know what it is like in your world, but in Middle-earth, the only women who perform are the ones who…who…have…debatable reputations. It would be wise for you to refrain from doing something like this again because—"

Her sudden snorting snore interrupted him in midsentence, and it was only then that he realized she'd fallen asleep against him.

And now, she owed him _two_ clean tunics.

—

Quiet permeated Edoras. The stars were veiled behind heavy clouds, and the moon was a washed out sliver of light trying valiantly to penetrate the gloom. The victors had all retired to their beds, leaving a few unfortunate guards standing vigilant on the lookout for possible invaders. The others had gone to rest, or out to watch the stars, in Legolas' case. Gimli had lost dismally at the drinking game and was sleeping off the effects of it.

Boromir toyed with his tankard of ale as he sat across from Aragorn. The fire had burned low, leaving little more than glowing embers in the great hearth of Meduseld. Servants were quietly cleaning away the remnants of the celebration. The leftover food would feed their families for days to come, and what they could not eat, they would feed to the dogs. Nothing could be wasted in times like these.

He looked up from his ale to glance at the man sitting opposite him, deep in thought. This was the man who would end his family's rule in Gondor. This ranger of the north, the captain he had followed from Rivendell to Edoras, would become king. Ever since he had been a child, his father had warned him. The line of kings had abandoned Gondor. It had been the stewards who had kept everything together. The stewards had led their people and suffered with them. They had bled for them. Where had been the king when Osgiliath had been ravaged by the forces of Mordor? Where had he been as the sons of Gondor had faced down their foes and shed their blood to defend their country?

But Aragorn had proved himself to be a capable leader. He had led them this far, had he not? He was a man who exuded authority, and had he not been a rival to Denethor, Boromir would have gladly sworn his allegiance to him. He dared not voice it, but the ranger would be a much better ruler than his father, and even himself.

A panicked shout pierced his thoughts. He stood up so quickly that he spilled his beer. "What was that?" he demanded.

"It sounded like Merry," said Aragorn. The two of them sped off and crashed through the door together in an ungainly fashion to find Merry helplessly looking on as Pippin writhed on the floor in silent agony. The little hobbit was clutching the crystal sphere Wormtongue had thrown at them in Isengard. An unnatural light came from the crystal. The rays seemed to be holding Pippin's hands to the crystal.

Before Boromir could do anything, Aragorn had snatched the crystal from the hobbit's hands. He collapsed as soon as his skin came into contact with it, and who knew what could have happened if Gandalf had not knocked the infernal thing out of his hands?

By then, just about everyone in Edoras had woken up and had come to see what was going on. They crowded around the door, craning their necks to catch a glimpse. It would have been a funny sight if the situation had not been so serious, with all the lords and ladies in their night clothes and bare feet. Some of them had grabbed their weapons out, but most of them were unarmed. If it had really been a raid, they would have been ill-prepared for it.

"Move aside!" came Éomer's voice. "There is nothing here to see." The crowd did not seem to believe him, but he was the Third Marshal, and in the absence of royal orders, his word was almost equivalent to the king's. They dispersed, murmuring amongst themselves.

"Milords," said Éomer. "I came as quickly as I could. The king has been informed. What has happened?"

Boromir had no answer for him. Instead, he turned his eyes to where Gandalf was coaxing words out of a pallid Pippin, trying to ascertain just what he had seen.

"Fire," gasped the hobbit. His eyes were wide, but it was as if he could not see any of them. "Everything was burning. The white tree was burning!"

—

Were a band of dwarves playing percussion on her skull? It certainly felt like it. Leila had never felt so bad before, not even during her worst bout of flu. Her eyes burned, her throat was as parched as the shifting sands of Arabia, and all she really wanted was water. Oh, that sounded _good_.

The point was, considering the way she was feeling, she ought to be unconscious. Hell, she wished she were unconscious. All the sounds seemed amplified. Every creak of wood sounded like an earthquake, and every hushed murmur sounded like a shout.

Wait, hushed murmurs? That meant there was a story! Where was her darned notepad? As she groped for her notepad, she tumbled out of the narrow pallet and onto the hard stone floor, and she would have said a bad word that was not publishable, but the only thing that came out of her mouth was a pathetic croak.

What had happened last night? She couldn't remember. Merry and Pippin were there. Merry had warned her against doing…something… There was mead. And Boromir—

What _did_ she say to him? As far as she could recall, there had been a rather lengthy conversation, but she could not remember it at all. The headache didn't help with the memory loss. Oh, that was right. She had let Raedwulf coax her into trying alcohol, and she'd actually liked it. So, the obvious conclusion was that she was hungover.

She dug around in her bag for her make-up kit and managed to find her compact. The mirror was coated with a light layer of dust, but it was better than nothing. Her red lipstick had smeared all over her face. She grimaced and made a sound of disgust. She looked like the Joker in the Batman movies, and unless one had a fetish for psychopaths, it wasn't sexy at all.

She wiped off the lipstick as best she could. The sunlight streaming through the gap in the shutters was particularly harsh. She winced. The light made her head throb harder. God, she needed a drink of water. Or maybe a painkiller — not Panadol because the last time she had one of those, her headache had gotten worse. Not that she'd ever been hungover before. The young journalist began a frenzied search for her sunglasses. No, she didn't care what the others would think of her strange fashions. Her eyes hurt.

The darkened lenses made the light of day more bearable. She stumbled to the table at the side of the room which held a jug and several cups. She poured herself a cup of water and gulped it down. Her head still hurt like hell, but at least her throat didn't feel like sandpaper.

Leila stumbled out into the great hall, searching for the origins of the hushed solemn voices that seemed to rumble inside her head, aggravating her headache. The sounds seemed distorted to her ears, so she couldn't make out what was being said, only that it was loud, and it was probably something interesting enough for her to poke her nose into. It never occurred to her she might one day get the tip of her nose burned for being too curious.

As she neared the hall, the voices became clearer. Gandalf was doing most of the speaking. He was talking about Pippin and something that had happened last night which she'd completely missed because she'd been in a drink-induced coma. Luckily she'd read the books and watched the films, so she could probably piece together what was going on. Wait…the Palantir! That was it!

Headache momentarily forgotten, she crept closer to the doorway, but stayed in the shadows so she could listen in on the conversation.

"I must go to Gondor," Boromir was saying. Well, of course he had to go.

"And so must I," said Aragorn.

Leila wanted to interrupt right then and demand that she be taken along as well. She couldn't do anything in Edoras. The battle was in Gondor now and that was where the story was! And, besides, she had become irrationally attached to Boromir and she didn't like the thought of not being able to talk to him for so long. Saruman, unfortunately, had not managed to steal a telephone or even a telegraph from her world, not that she knew any Morse code beyond SOS.

"No, you cannot go to Gondor yet, Aragorn," said Gandalf. He leaned in closer to the ranger and whispered something into his ear. Aragorn seemed reluctant, but he nodded.

"I will go to Gondor," said the wizard, turning back to face the rest of them. "Peregrin Took, for your foolishness, you will be coming with me, and our young intrepid storyteller, you should know better than to eavesdrop. Is it not unethical in your profession to listen in on conversations not meant for your ears?"

Leila sheepishly emerged into the light of the hall. "It's dependent on public interest," she said defensively. "I want to go to Gondor too."

"Leila, think about this," said Boromir. "What possible reason could you have for wanting to go to Gondor? It is safer for you here."

"Is it?" she asked. The mead had emboldened her. That, and perhaps she still wasn't in full control of her mental functions yet. "With all due respect, milords, if the war does not go well, no one in Middle-earth will be safe. I am not a warrior. I have not the strength to lift a sword, but there could be other things I could do to help. I am, after all, a dealer of information."

"It might not be a bad idea," mused Gandalf. "Maybe it won't do much good, but I can't see what harm it could cause. Boromir? What do you think? It is your city, after all."

"We definitely need every advantage we can get," said Boromir slowly. "But I still think it is safer for Leila to stay here, away from the fighting. However, she is more than capable of making her own decisions and I cannot speak for her."

"There you have it, young lady," said Gandalf. "The decision lies with you. There is no guarantee of your survival, but you already know that, don't you?"

"Everybody dies," said Leila. "The question is whether your death has any meaning or not. I'll go get my things."

—

She carefully checked her bag to make sure it was properly stowed. Her borrowed dress had been returned, and she was dressed in her own jeans —now clean— and boots. Éowyn had wished her well and given her a boy's woollen cloak, which came to the tops of her thighs.

"This way, you won't trip," the Shieldmaiden had told her.

Daffodil poked his head over the door of his stall lazily to see what was disturbing his nap. He whickered when he saw her, demanding a treat.

"If you ride him, you might just reach Minas Tirith by the time the war is over," said Gimli as he came into the stable. He reached up to scratch Daffodil's nose. The sleepy animal seemed to be the only equine the dwarf liked. She'd asked Gimli about it once. After all, dwarves rode ponies too. Gradually, Gimli admitted that no, it wasn't a dwarvish thing to not like horses. It was a Gimli thing, and he had never been a rider.

"I'll just miss him, that's all," said Leila.

"I bet you'll miss him a lot more than he'll miss you," said Gimli.

"And I'll miss you too," she said.

"You know, if you miss us this much, you could always stay," said the dwarf, "but I think then you'll be missing someone else a whole lot more."

Leila opened her mouth to ask him what he meant by that, but Boromir's entrance cut her off before she could even begin her sentence. Gimli simply winked at her and stepped aside so the Gondorian could give her a leg up into the saddle.

"It is kind of you to see us off, Gimli," said Boromir.

"Ah, who knows when I'll next see you?" asked the dwarf. "Try not to get yourself killed while I'm not there, lad. You know what you're like."

"I don't know what you mean," said Boromir.

"Don't worry, Gimli," said Leila. "I'll look after him."

"And I shall keep two eyes on all of them," said Gandalf, coming in with a very pale Pippin and a worried Merry. The younger hobbit had not said much since last night, which made everyone worry about him, even though he insisted he was fine. The wizard lifted the hobbit into Shadowfax's back and easily swung on himself, despite having no stirrups and no reins. Not that the reins would have helped with mounting, but stirrups, on the other hand, Leila found to be indispensable.

The others were waiting for them outside the stables. A meaningful look passed between Aragorn and Boromir, and even though they said nothing to one another, both men seemed to understand what was being communicated.

—

Minas Tirith burning. The Eye. Orcs marching. The images flashed in his mind over and over again, driving him to madness. Green plains flew by without him seeing any of it. Was there any hope for Gondor? They were outnumbered. Their people were too tired. The enemy was too strong. He had to be strong for his people, for his men, and for his family, but it was wearing him down.

They only made brief stops to let the horses rest so they would not collapse. Boromir was anxious to be on the road, but Gandalf insisted. "You won't get anywhere on a dead horse," said the wizard. "And you won't be of any use to anyone either if you die of exhaustion."

He lay on the grass and tried to let his mind go blank. He tried not to think of his beloved city burning or his people dying. How could he protect everything that mattered to him? Everyone expected him to make things right, but how could he? He could not even stave off the call of the Ring! He was weak. He was flawed. He wasn't the perfect son and defender he ought to be.

"Hey," said Leila as she sat down beside him. "Am I disturbing you?"

"No, not at all," he said as he sat up. She was still pale, but she looked better than she had yesterday morning. At least she did not look as if she was about to bring up the contents of her stomach at any given moment. And, as unlikely as it seemed, she was an excellent distraction.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "It's just that —don't take this the wrong way— you don't seem okay."

"Distract me before I go mad," he said.

"With what?" she asked, plucking a stem of grass and peeling back the layers until only the young shoot remained. She rubbed the shoot between her fingers for a while before letting it fall.

"Aren't you the purveyor of information? Overwhelm me with things unrelated to Mordor." He paused, remembering something. "That night, in Edoras, you told me I was 'hot'."

She took on a look like one of a frightened doe who had just seen the hunter's arrow. "I said that?" she said. Well, squeaked.

"You did," he said. "I have been wanting to ask you what it meant, since our definitions of the word seem to differ greatly. You also called me Boz, which is a very odd contraction of my name."

"I…well...um…you see…" She took a deep breath. "In my world, the word 'hot' can refer to temperature, or the fact something is pleasing, or, if in reference to a person…well…you have a very symmetrical facial structure and broad shoulders and a narrow waist and…What I'm saying is…it was a compliment." She cleared her throat uncomfortably, and underneath the layer of dirt that had accumulated, she was blushing furiously.

It finally dawned on him —he thought— what she had meant.

"Are you trying to say I am handsome?" he said.

"Yes…no…yes…it's probably a more genteel way of putting it, but 'hot' isn't just handsome. But…yeah, let's just go with handsome for now."

"I never knew you felt that way about me," he said. While he had known for a while that women considered him to be handsome —and the truth was, he wasn't that bad looking— it still came as a surprise that Leila would think that way. Perhaps she was not so different from other women after all.

"Does that mean you fancy him, Leila?" asked Pippin.

"Just because I think he's handsome does not mean I fancy him," said Leila, turning even redder than before.

"But you seem close," the hobbit remarked.

"She saved my life," said Boromir quickly.

"And he was nice to me," said Leila.

"She drooled on my tunic," added Boromir. "Twice."

"All that acts as some sort of bonding agent or something rather," said Leila, as if that explained everything.

Pippin gave them both odd looks. "Why are you so quick to deny anything?" he asked. "I wasn't saying it as if it were a bad thing, because it's not."

"Because…we're just friends," said Leila, "and I just happen to think Boromir is a rather good-looking fellow, you know, and I think most of the female population would agree with me."

"Well, that's a pity, because I think you might actually be well suited to one another, as strange as that might seem," said Pippin with a shrug. All right, maybe he really _was_ fine like he said, because he seemed to have recovered enough to tease people.

Leila risked glancing at Boromir, just to see what he thought of Pippin's observations, but the Gondorian seemed to find the ground very interesting all of a sudden.

—

Forests and plains passed by without registering in her mind. Leila gazed into nothingness, replaying the conversation over and over again in her head. Pippin's words troubled her. Yes, she did think Boromir was handsome —what healthy heterosexual woman wouldn't?— and she did like him very much, but that surely didn't mean she _like_ liked him, did it? She tried to imagine what it would be like if she did _like_ like him and if they were even remotely feasible as a couple.

No, it was completely impossible. He was a lord of the highest order, and she was nobody particularly special. But she could picture them together, and the image quite appealed to her. No, no. Who was she kidding? It was not going to happen, and while she was not the most realistic of people, she wasn't an idiot either. Most of the time, anyway. There was too much standing between them. His rank, his duty, and the fact that they came from completely different realities. Plus, she was all of twenty four years old, and he was forty. And he probably didn't see her that way. The men she wanted never did. Although that would have to mean she actually wanted Boromir, and she absolutely, most certainly did _not_. Pippin was simply reading too much into things. They all needed a distraction from the dark days ahead, and a made up romance about a lord and a common girl was as good as any.

"Leila, look," Boromir suddenly said from behind her, jerking her out of her thoughts. "There. Minas Tirith."

The sight took her breath away. Looming above undulating green plains and nestled against black cliffs like an egg against a penguin, was a city that surpassed every other city she had ever seen. Which amounted to four cities in total, including one which had just been flattened by an earthquake and had never been particularly big or imposing to begin with. She wasn't very well-travelled. From a distance, Minas Tirith resembled a giant frosted, seven-tiered wedding cake. Boromir probably wouldn't appreciate the comparison.

But, frosting and penguins aside, nothing could detract from its magnificence. How many years and how much craftsmanship had gone into building it? Notre Dame had taken over a century to build, and this was much grander.

"Is it not beautiful?" asked Boromir proudly.

"It's awe-inspiring," she whispered. "Jerusalem has nothing on it." Especially not now, what with that ugly concrete wall running through it.

"I am glad you think so," he said. He dug his heels into his horse's flanks. The animal surged forward, following Shadowfax, as the small company sped towards the great gates of Minas Tirith.

The gates themselves were cast from steel, and on their surface were depictions of significant events from Gondor's history. There was Isildur brandishing his father's broken sword at the great enemy, and then there was Elendil marching on the Black Gates.

Speaking of the Black Gates, she figured if she squinted enough, she might just be able to see them if she could figure out which direction east was in.

The gates opened with a groan, and there were distant joyous shouts as people recognized Boromir. "The Captain has returned at last!"

It was almost like being in the entourage of a movie star, except Leila could not imagine the sort of pressure on Boromir. Everyone relied on him to make things right. He was just one guy. All that responsibility…it would be too much for anyone! It was a miracle he was still sane.

The horses' hooves clattered hollowly on the paved streets, almost like the rhythm of a waltz. She clung onto the pommel of the saddle so tightly that her knuckles were white. Each time they rounded a corner or flew up yet another flight of stairs, she was afraid she might fall off.

They continued in an anticlockwise direction, spiralling up the city until at last they reached the seventh level and the next level would probably be heaven. Or hell, depending on which religion you adhered to.

The air was colder and thinner up here, and the elevation allowed her to see for miles and miles in every direction. Shadows darkened the sky in the east, while in the west, the sun was slowly setting, its feeble rays hardly reaching the shadows, let alone penetrating them. The River Anduin flowed southward, a dark silver ribbon against a green brocade of grasslands.

Boromir lifted her out of the saddle after he himself had dismounted.

"You didn't need to do that," she murmured to him, aware that there were people watching and …well, she wouldn't blame them for wondering who the hell this girl was that the son of the Steward and the most esteemed man in all of Gondor would help _her_ off a horse.

"Are you trying to tell me you are capable of supporting yourself on your own two legs right now?" he murmured back.

She couldn't, not when they both knew fully well she was not accustomed to spending hours in a saddle, much less a day. As a matter of fact, she was trying to ignore the pins and needles in her feet, as the singular position in the saddle had stopped blood flow to her extremities. So she did not answer and instead, took to observing her surroundings, all the while trying not to think about how high up she was and how there was this one section on the seventh level where there was a gap in the wall. Whenever she looked down from a high place, there was always this terrifying urge to jump. She'd often wondered if, deep down, she was suicidal.

Pippin's voice interrupted her thoughtful ruminations. It wasn't so much the volume of his voice that pierced her mundane musings, but the hushed fearful tone which seemed most uncharacteristic of the usually cheerful hobbit.

"It's the tree, Gandalf," he all but whispered. I saw it. I saw it burning."


	10. Off the Record

**A/N: **This chapter has been a long time in coming. I have been preoccupied with new projects, not least the Game of Thrones/Vampire Diaries crossover I have been writing with my brother, called 'A Red Sun Rises'. (It's in the Game of Thrones section, by 'Tempest Rulz', if you're interested.) But my muse seems to be back, and it wants me to finish up my old stories too!

As always, Boromir, Gandalf, etc. belong to the brilliant Professor Tolkien. Leila is mine.

(Btw, during my absence, I met Sir Ian, and it was just the most awesome awesome thing about being a journalist because I could legitimately ask him questions. I was in a hurry to get to another job which included the prime minister being boring, and could only speak with him for three minutes. I felt I was being horribly rushed and rude, but he was very very gracious about it!)

Anyway, enough about me. On with the tale!

**Chapter 10: Off the Record**

The tree shivered in the cold wind blowing from the north. Boromir shivered internally along with it. Its bare branches looked more like bone. Dried bone of a long dead creature which might have, once upon a time, been magnificent to behold. He couldn't help but think that the fate of the tree foretold the fate of Gondor and everyone else in Middle-earth. 'It's just a tree,' he thought to himself. 'A tree like any other tree. Trees die.'

"Yes, that is the White Tree of Gondor," said the wizard.

"If it is dead, then why do you keep it?" asked Pippin. The question was directed at Boromir this time.

"We keep it in the hope it will one day flower again, little one," said Boromir. "Although…" His voice trailed off as he descended into all the dark possibilities that the tree would never flower again. They were becoming more and more likely with each passing moment as the darkness drew closer, coming to smother them once and for all.

He shook his head, as if to clear his mind of these dark thoughts, although Leila knew they kept plaguing him. She wished there was something she could do, but what _could_ she do, short of telling him not to worry because Frodo was going to deal with it?

"Come," said Boromir. "My father will know of our arrival by now and I am most anxious to pass on what information we have so that we may prepare for battle. "

"Maybe I should stay outside," said Leila.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Boromir. "You have nothing to fear. You are my guest."

"This is the business of great men, and I have no part in it," said the girl.

'You know the most out of all of us," said Boromir. "With knowledge comes power and with power comes responsibility."

"I have the responsibility to not change the course of history," she said.

"I am not asking you to interfere; merely to observe. History has already been changed, Leila. I think you know that better than anybody," he countered. She had no argument against that.

"Like I said," continued Boromir. 'You have nothing to fear whilst you are under my protection. Do you not trust me?"

"I trust you," she replied. "I don't trust myself not to say the wrong thing."

"Then don't say anything," said Gandalf, interrupting them for the first time. "That is a simple enough solution to all your problems. Pippin, I would advise you to do the same."

"But I don't know any history-changing secrets," protested the hobbit.

"Oh, you know more secrets than you should, Peregrin," said Gandalf. "The more you say, the more mistakes you make."

The guards, who must have _at least_ been aware of their hushed conversations, stared ahead impassively. For a moment, Leila wondered if the steel-clad figures were actual men or statues. Then one of them blinked, confirming their status as the former. What was it with feudal societies and treating security as ornamentation? These were like the Beefeaters in England, only without the ridiculous hats. If she were a queen, she would have wanted to be very sure her security personnel were alive and capable of moving.

Their footsteps echoed as they stepped inside the great hall of black and white marble—mostly white. Great vaulted ceilings enhanced the echoes as the sound waves bounced from one surface to another, making them sound like the footsteps of giants.

There was a path of black marble down the centre, leading up to a black marble dais and a black marble throne. Everything else was white, from the vaulted ceilings to the life-sized statues of kings long dead which lined the black path. The stone of which they were carved looked to be translucent, more like white jade than marble. Each of them held a sceptre and an orb, looking like any other king out of Earth's Middle Ages.

An empty chair sat at the base of the throne, also made of black marble. One had to wonder where all the marble had come from. Did Gondor trade a lot with the dwarves? The books had mentioned nothing about human miners although she had to assume that there were some.

"Where is my father?" asked Boromir of one of the servants who stood meekly by the dais, looking almost like ornaments themselves.

"My Lord Steward is indisposed. He bids you to go to his study, milord, for he much desires to speak with you alone," said the servant.

Boromir glanced back at the rest of them. He wasn't happy about the situation, and his lips were pressed together in a thin line. "Very well," he said. "See to it that my guests are properly settled. I shall go to my father immediately."

"Would you like someone to take you to him, milord?" asked the man.

"I have lived here my whole life. I should like to think I know the way around my own house."

He spoke as a man used to having his orders obeyed, which he was, but this was not the Boromir Leila had known. She'd known the man. This was the lord.

Although he still looked the same , he seemed to have grown in stature, and the mask he now wore hid all traces of the man who had jested with her and the hobbits. He turned to Gandalf. "You must come with me, Mithrandir," he said. "I fear my power of speech is not enough this time."

"You know I would have come even if you had not asked," said Gandalf. "But it pleases me that you did."

Boromir turned to the manservant. "See to it that my guests are settled comfortably. I want them both housed in the west wing."

For a moment, the servant goggled at him and gave an uncertain glance at Leila and Pippin. Boromir's forehead crinkled just a little.

"At once, milord," said the manservant as he beckoned to Leila and Pippin to follow him.

—

The familiar hallways of the citadel felt constricting and alien to him as he strode through them to his father's study. Yet, they were not the ones which had changed. Stones remained very much the same year to year. He was the one who was different.

Boromir found the door of his father's study shut. The polished oak had darkened with age, giving the door an air of solemn dignity, much like the man it hid. He knocked. The sound was dull to his ears.

"Who is it?" came his father's muffled voice from within. He sounded slightly irritated to be interrupted, although there was nothing unusual about that. His father was a man with a lot on his mind.

"It is I, Boromir," he replied. "I have brought Mithrandir with me, for we bear tidings from the west."

In moments, the door was flung open. Feeble rays of sun trickled through. The man who came out and embraced him was a lot older than he remembered. Boromir might only have been gone for half a year, but his father had aged ten. His dark hair, once simply threaded with silver, was half grey, and lines of worry had been engraved deeply in his visage.

"At last, you have returned, my son," he said. "You cannot know how much I have been looking forward to this day."

He invited them into his study. Boromir closed the door behind him.

Denethor bade him sit. "Let me have a look at you, my boy," he said. He sat behind his heavy wooden desk, opposite his son. The mountains of maps and documents, piled high on the desk, seemed to be threatening to swallow him, but he was smiling. How long had it been since his father had smiled? He had one of those faces, people said, that did not know mirth.

"You have grown so thin and brown," said Denethor, frowning at the thought of what sort of life his son had led in the wild. It made Boromir feel a rush of love towards his father. It was difficult for Denethor to show that he cared about someone, and if he was expressing his concern, then he must have been quite concerned indeed.

"I am well, Father," said Boromir. "It is you whose health concerns me. You look tired."

Denethor dismissed those worries with a wave of his hand. "It takes more than this to kill me," he said. "It will be some years before you will be Steward, Boromir. I hope it does not disappoint you to hear it."

"On the contrary, I pray I never have to become Steward," said Boromir. And as he said it, he realized he really meant it. He'd already given the first half of his life to Gondor. Was it too much to ask that he be able to live at least a part of the rest of his life for himself? He did not want to sit in the Steward's chair and grow bitter and cynical like his father, while the outside world crumbled around him, out of his control.

And perhaps he wouldn't have to. Aragorn was coming. Riding through the city, he had felt the suffocating ambience radiating from its inhabitants, as if they despaired of ever being rid of the shadow. Perhaps a good Steward was not enough for Gondor. She needed her king.

"Of course you will be Steward one day," said Denethor. "No man lives forever, and I am no elf. But it will not be for a while yet, I assure you. I'm not as close to death as everyone seems to think." His brow darkened. "What news have you brought from the west?"

"Not good news, I'm afraid," said Boromir. "Mordor is set to march on our gates with a host of tens of thousands. We must join forces with Théoden of Rohan if we are to stand a chance of surviving, Father."

"We must, must we?" said Denethor. His voice had chilled by more than just a few notches within the last minute, and his flint grey eyes became harder than stone, and more cutting. "Have you truly lost your way, Boromir, that you would open our gates to that ranger of the north who has no more claim to this throne than the mercenaries who sell their swords?"

No one had been expecting that, although Boromir suspected Leila must have known, which was why she had been so nervous.

Gandalf stepped forward, allowing Boromir a graceful retreat. "The Rohirrim have ever been the allies of Gondor, Lord Denethor," he said. "With the enemy marching on your doorstep, you need your friends now more than ever. Light the beacons. It is the only way."

"And when your friends are wolves dressed as lambs?" asked Denethor. "Enemies march on Gondor from both directions, Mithrandir."

"Father, Gondor _needs_ Rohan's aid!" said Boromir, unable to abide it any longer.

Denethor stood up so rapidly that he almost overturned his desk, and would have if it had not been so heavy. The inkwell toppled over, and black spread over the pale yellow sheets of parchment scattering his desk, obliterating words and spreading across a map of Gondor.

"Would you betray your own father?" he demanded. Boromir stared at him, speechless. What had prompted his father to accuse him of such a thing? He was indignant, and he was pained his father would even think of it!

"Had you only taken Isildur's bane from the Halfling and brought it back here, Gondor would have been saved! Do not think me blind. I know you could have."

"You know not of what you speak," said Boromir quietly.

"Do I not? Or do you still think me a fool. You disappoint me, Boromir. I would have expected Faramir to fall prey to the wizard's smooth words, but you. You!"

He sat down again.

"Gondor has no need of horsemen or rangers from the north," said Denethor. With that, he bent back down over his spoiled documents and did not look at them again.

Just like that, they were dismissed.

—

"You would have thought they would have let us go in and listen at least, after having come all this way," said Pippin as he smoked a pipe on the white stone balcony outside his room, determinedly trying to blow smoke rings. He managed one or two, but mostly the smoke just came in a stream out of his mouth. He'd tried to convince Leila to try it, but she had adamantly refused. "Aren't you the least bit curious, Leila? I thought you would be at least as curious as a Took."

The girl was still carefully examining their meal consisting of a great variety of cold meats, preserved vegetables, cheese, and breads. The artichokes had been excellent; tender, with a delicate smoky flavour, and just sour enough to excite her taste buds. She was feeling human again now that she'd bathed in a deep wooden tub filled with hot water and changed into fresh, borrowed clothes. She'd even made an emergency hair conditioner out of lemon juice and oil, which had made the maids look at her oddly.

"They'll tell us everything soon enough," said Leila. "Besides, I'm relieved. The thought of meeting Boromir's father terrifies me."

"You'll have to meet your future father in law _sometime_," said the hobbit, which made her almost spit out a mouthful of cranberry tonic. As it was, the liquid went down the wrong way, and she spent a significant amount of time coughing out her epiglottis, with Pippin patting her back unhelpfully.

"Don't be ridiculous," she finally managed to gasp. "Boromir and I are friends."

"That's what they all say, and the next thing you know, they're married," said Pippin.

And then, a timely knock on the door saved Leila from further embarrassment and the need to explain herself.

"Who is it?" asked Pippin.

"It is I," came a familiar voice.

"The door's not locked," said the hobbit. "Come in!"

Boromir came in and shut the door behind him. Before they could greet him, he'd sat down and poured himself a cup of wine, which he then downed in one gulp. His face was pale, and his eyes were troubled.

"What's going on? What's wrong? Did someone die?" asked Leila.

He stared at the flickering flames in the hearth. The unsteady orange light cast dark shadows on the sharp planes of his face. He remained that way for a long time, still and unmoving. Finally, he turned to his two increasingly confused and worried companions.

"Forgive me, Pippin, but would you mind if I borrowed Leila for a moment?"

"You're more than welcome to," said the hobbit, beating a hasty retreat, no doubt to find Gandalf and demand what was going on. Finally, it was just the two of them. Leila sat down beside Boromir on the long couch.

"What's going on?" she said. "Come on, say something. You're scaring me."

"I do not know what I ought to do," he said softly. "On one side is my father, and on the other, my brother and king. I am torn between the two. If you were in my place, what would you choose?"

"There is a third side," said Leila.

"A third side?" he asked.

"I think you know better than I do which side that is," said Leila.

"Gondor, of course," said Boromir, "but I cannot tell which decision would be in Gondor's best interests. Aragorn might be the rightful king, but he has not been here in decades, whereas my father has consolidated his power.

"But Gondor needs her king. The people look to him to make things right. Not me, not my father. The king. The very idea of him gives them hope, and with hope, they can see the end they are fighting for. Not for us lords to remain in power. What do they care about that if we cannot protect them and give them peace? I have come to realize the common people do not care who rules them as long as he —yes, or she— is just and fair and can let them prosper. They care not for bloodlines and legitimacy. That is the game of lords."

"I think you've just answered your own question," said Leila.

He gave a small chuckle, and some of the burden seemed to fall from him. "I do not know what I would have done without you," he said. "No, do not answer that, for I know that answer as well."

"So I take it the discussion did not go smoothly?" she finally ventured. She doubted Denethor would have taken kindly to the idea that he let Aragorn assume sovereignty over the country he and his forebears had ruled for so long. Hell, if she'd been in his place, she'd have been furious as well.

"It was a disaster," he said. "My father wants the…you know what I'm talking about. He thinks it will save Gondor." He shook his head. "I am glad I was here to mediate it. His love for me shields me from the full brunt of his wrath. Had it been Faramir…I shudder to think how it would have played out."

"You're a good brother," said Leila. "Faramir's lucky to have you."

"I should think so," said Boromir. He paused. "From tomorrow on, the entire city will be making preparations for war, and I would hate to leave you all alone in the Citadel"

"Don't worry about me. I'm no one of consequence. Who's going to hurt me?"

"On the contrary, your head holds a lot of valuable information," said Boromir. "Besides, you are my guest, and what sort of host would I be if I abandoned you to your own devices? If you do not object, I should like to move you to a safe place until such time as I will be able to do more for you."

"You're not trying to sequester me away like a mistress, are you?" she asked, mostly in jest.

"I would never!" He sounded so indignant and insulted that she regretted even suggesting it.

"I wasn't serious," she said.

"But I am," he said. "I do believe it would be a safer place for you, but if you disagree, you only need say so, and I shall move you back to the Citadel."

—

Minas Tirith was a city where class mattered. Much like medieval Europe, people of different statuses seldom mingled. The tiers of society were separated by the levels of the city, which they called circles. However, there were some who transcended the boundaries of class and status to establish their own niche, using wealth and sheer brilliance.

The seventh circle was dedicated entirely to government and, of course, housed the palace where the ruling steward and his family lived. The sixth circle was where wealthy noblemen had their houses, and the Houses of Healing were also there, although Leila questioned the common sense of putting what was, essentially, a hospital, so high up. What if someone got injured in the first circle? By the time they managed to get the patient up here, they might have died already!

House prices decreased as they went lower down into the city. The first circle was the Gondorian equivalent of a ghetto. Each circle had its own contingent of soldiers, who doubled up as law enforcers. The army and the police were one and the same in Gondor. Apparently, their case-closing rate was rather low; something which Boromir had been wanting to rectify for a while, but simply hadn't the time to, what with all the incursions by Mordor's forces.

Boromir took her to the third circle, where less wealthy noblemen mingled with wealthier entrepreneurs and great scholars. "I own a house here," he said. "No one knows of it, save for Faramir, and everyone else believes if I had a house anywhere in the city, it would be on the sixth circle."

"Oh my God, _you _have a _bachelor pad_?" she asked.

"A man needs his solitude sometimes," said Boromir. "I can trust you with this secret, yes?"

"I would never breach a source's confidence," said Leila. "Journalism ethics."

"I was under the impression gossip mongers have no ethics. Then again, you do not seem to be very good at it."

"I don't need to breach my code of ethics to get stories," said Leila. "You tell me everything that need to know."

"Only because I know I am…what do you call it? Off the record."

He led her down a little side street, nestled in a wildly overgrown garden. The branches of dog rose bushes spilled over the edges of the path. The orchids had yet to flower, but the branches of the crab apple trees, which hung low overhead like a natural gazebo, were covered with buds. Boromir had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the branches.

"Do you have a gardener?" asked Leila.

"He's lame, deaf, and almost blind," said Boromir. "But when my mother was alive, he helped her to cultivate the most beautiful roses. After she died, my father dismissed him and redesigned all the gardens for they reminded him too much of her. But I always remembered, and when I bought this house, almost twenty years ago now, I hired him to tend my gardens. I thought, perhaps, I could recreate a garden my mother used to have. Alas, I did not have the time, and he grew old. I cannot bear the thought of replacing him, however. This is his home as much as it is mine."

The doorway was low, barely tall enough to fit Boromir. The door was made of polished oak with brass knockers and studs, more for show than for actual defence. The housekeeper answered before Boromir had even knocked on the door twice. She curtseyed awkwardly, and then quickly began to tell her master about all the preparations she had made for his visit, and asking him how long he would stay.

"Not long, I'm afraid," he said.

"Of course, your duty calls, milord," said the housekeeper, whose name was Nimmir. "Oh, how sick I am of this damned shadow!"

"Valar willing, it will not be for much longer," said Boromir.

"I have no doubt about that, now that you are back," said the woman. She peered curiously at Leila, who was beginning to feel like an exotic exhibit at a zoo.

"Nimmir, this is Leila," said Boromir. "She is a travelling storyteller from the east, and she will be a guest in this house."

"You have never brought a woman to this house before, milord," said Nimmir as she examined the younger woman with eyes which reminded Leila of airport security. She looked from Leila to Boromir, as if demanding answers.

"She saved my life," said Boromir. "Now she is my guest, but I think it would be more appropriate for her to stay here rather than in the Citadel."

"Well, in this case, you are most welcome, milady," said Nimmir, dipping her head in Leila's direction. "I shall see to it your room is ready." She immediately left to do what she'd said she would do, leaving Boromir and Leila standing in the foyer of the house.

"She was nurse to Faramir and I when we were boys," said Boromir. "She's very protective of us. When my father no longer had need of her services, I arranged a position for her here. She lives here now, and keeps everything ready for me should I want to stay for a while." He paused. "Well…what do you think?"

"It's beautiful," said Leila. And she meant it. While the Citadel itself was gorgeous and awe-inspiring, it hardly felt like a place where people lived. Boromir's 'bachelor pad' actually felt like a home, and the simple décor —no ostentatious vases or plaster sculptures anywhere— was so very him.

He left her soon after to settle in, having already taken far too much time out of his busy schedule to make sure she was comfortable. However, he promised to try and come back later in the day if he could and bring both Pippin and Gandalf with him so they could at least have supper together. "Don't worry about me," she said as she ushered him out the door. "This is Minas Tirith. I don't think I'm in any danger of being eaten by an orc here, and I can amuse myself well enough."

"There are more dangerous things than orcs and trolls in the world," said Boromir, "and not all weapons are made of steel. As much as I love Minas Tirith, I cannot deny there are dangers in her streets as well, and I _know_ you will be exploring as much as you can."

"I've survived twenty four years just fine on my own," said Leila. Well, not entirely on her own; she'd had her parents and friends and all those people to help her, but she wasn't exactly friendless here. "I think I can survive just a few hours without you. Now go before they blame me for keeping you from serious matters of state. That is not something I'm willing to take responsibility for. "

Not entirely convinced, but knowing that he was being completely irrational, Boromir finally left the little house and garden.


End file.
